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THE   LATE   TENANT 


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THE 

LATE  TENANT 


BY 

GORDON   HOLMES 

Author  of   "A  Mysterious  Disappearance," 
"The  Arncliffe  Puzzle." 


New  York 

Edward  J.  Clode 

156   Fifth  Avenue 

1906 


($0(d®($($(^®<;d(d0($!^($(d($C$(d(d®($<3®(d($(d($®(d0^0cd0(d($(dd0<d($(<^(d(j^(i^(^ 


Copyright,  1906,  bv 
EDWARD   J.  CLODE 


Eti'.ered  at  Stationers  Hall 


The  Plimpton  Press  Norwood  Mass.  U.SA. 


1 

'■'■  t 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

A  Whiff  of  Violets 1 

CHAPTER  II 
A  Signature  with  a  Flourish 15 

CHAPTER  III 
Violet 27 

CHAPTER  IV 

"Johann  Strauss" 36 

CHAPTER  V 
Von  or  Van  ? 45 

CHAPTER  VI 
The  Word  of  Joy 60 

CHAPTER  VII 
Violet's  Conditions         70 

CHAPTER  VIII 
At  Dead  of  Night 83 

CHAPTER  IX 
Coming  Near 96 

CHAPTER  X 
The  Marriage-Lines       106 

V 


[Vi53JiD53 


Contents 

CHAPTER  XI 

PAGE 

Swords  Drawn 11*7 

CHAPTER  Xn 
Thj:  Night- Watche3 .     133 

CHAPTER  XHI 
No  More  Violet 144 

CHAPTER  XIV 
TheDluiy 163 

CHAPTER  XV 
In  Pain 1*73 

CHAPTER  XVI 
Hand  to  Hand 180 

CHAPTER  XVII 
David  more  than  Regains  Lost  Ground 197 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

From  the  Depths        213 

CHAPTER  XIX 
Violet  Decides 227 

CHAPTER  XX 

David  has  One  Visitor  and  Expects  Others    ....     242 

CHAPTER  XXI 
The  Midnight  Gathering 257 

CHAPTER  XXII 
Van  Hupfeldt  Makes  Amends 271 

vi 


The  Late  Tenant 


I 


CHAPTER  I 

A    WHIFF    OF   VIOLETS 

SUPPOSE  one  becomes  used  to  this  sort  of  thing 
in  time,"  thought  David  Harcourt,  as  he  peered 
through  the  dusty  plate-glass  windov,^s  of  his  third- 
floor  flat.  *'At  present  I  can  appreciate  the  feehngs 
of  a  Wyoming  steer  when  he  first  experiences  the  re- 
straint of  a  cattle-truck.  Or  am  I  a  caged  bird  ?  or 
a  menagerie  ape  .^  or  a  mere  ass  }  There  is  something 
in  the  evolution  theory,  after  all.  Obviously,  one  of 
my  respected  ancestors  is  kicking." 

Then,  being  a  cheerful  soul,  he  laughed,  and  turned 
from  the  outer  prospect  to  face  the  coziness  of  liis  new 
abode.  He  did  not  understand  yet  that  in  No.  7, 
Eddystone  Mansions,  picked  almost  at  haphazard  from 
a  house-agenfs  list,  he  had  hit  upon  a  residence  singu- 
larly free  from  the  sort  of  thing  which  induced  this 
present  fit  of  the  blues.  In  the  first  place,  owing  to  a 
suit  in  chancery,  the  "eligible"  building- site  opposite 
was  vacant,  and  most  of  the  windows  of  No.  7  com- 
manded an  open  space.  Secondly,  the  street  itself  did 
not  connect  two  main  thoroughfares ;  hence  its  quietude 

1 


The  Late  Tenant 

was  seldom  disturbed  by  vehicles.  Thirdly,  and,  per- 
haps, most  important  of  all,  his  neighbors,  above,  be- 
low, and  on  three  sides,  were  people  who  had  achieved 
by  design  what  he  had  done  by  accident  —  they  had 
taken  up  their  abode  in  Eddystone  Mansions  on 
account  of  the  peace  thus  secured  in  the  heart  of 
London. 

For  London  has  a  stony  heart  with  wooden  arteries, 
through  which  the  stream  of  life  rushes  noisily.  To 
ears  tuned  by  the  far-flung  silence  of  the  prairie  this 
din  of  traffic  was  thunderous.  To  eyes  trained  by 
the  smooth  horizon  it  was  bewildering  to  see  a  clear 
sky  overhead  and  a  sun  sinking  slowly,  like  a  dim 
Chinese  fire-balloon,  into  a  compound  of  smoke  and 
chimneys.  In  fact,  David  Harcourt  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Londoners,  as  a  race,  must  be  purblind 
and  somewhat  deaf. 

"I  wonder  if  I  can  stand  it?"  he  commented.  "I 
saw  a  map  of  South  Africa  in  a  shop  window  to-day. 
It  looked  wonderfully  attractive.  Yes,  I  am  beginning 
to  believe  there  is  neither  claw  nor  feather  in  my 
composition.  *  Kicking '  is  the  right  word  —  hoof  — 
ass!  Oh!  the  line  of  descent  is  clear."  Then  he 
laughed  again,  taking  a  box  of  cigars  off  the  top  of  a 
bookcase,  and  any  one  who  heard  him  laugh  would 
have  grasped  the  reason  why  men  soon  called  him 
"Davie,"  and  women  smiled  when  he  looked  at  them. 

Dame  Nature,  aided  by  his  less  remote  ancestors  in 
the  evolutionary  tree,  had  been  good  to  him.     It  would 

2 


A  Whiff  of  Violets 

have  needed  the  worst  "environment"  ever  dreamed 
of  by  sociology  to  make  him  a  degenerate.  As  it  was, 
a  healthy  upbringing,  a  fair  public-school  education, 
and  the  chance  that  a  relation  of  his  owned  a  Wyoming 
ranch,  joined  in  fashioning  an  excellent  specimen  of 
lusty  and  clean-souled  young  manhood.  But  that 
same  general  wet-nurse,  who  had  intended  David  to 
lord  it  over  herds  and  vast  pastures,  had  complicated 
matters  by  throwing  a  literary  kink  into  the  deftly 
coiled  strands  of  his  composition.  Thus,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five,  he  took  more  interest  in  scribbling  stories 
and  searching  for  rimes  than  in  toting  up  the  proceeds 
of  sales  at  Chicago  stock-yards.  Worse  than  that, 
having  oft  imagined  and  striven  to  depict  various 
ethereal  creatures  typical  of  the  Spirit  of  the  Dawn, 
the  Fairy  of  the  Dell,  or  the  Goddess  of  the  Mist,  he 
had  refused,  most  emphatically,  to  wed  the  elderly 
rancher's  daughter,  his  relative,  a  lady  blessed  with 
more  wealth  and  weight  than  was  necessary  for  any 
one  woman  in  the  world. 

So,  like  many  another  youngster  in  the  far  lands,  he 
heard  the  voice  of  London  calling  through  every  book 
and  newspaper  he  read.  It  was  a  siren  voice,  devoid 
of  accent.  The  Wyoming  wooing,  too,  became  a 
serious  matter;  hence,  like  one  of  the  dove-eyed  oxen 
he  knew  so  well,  he  stampeded  in  sudden  panic, 
realized  his  personal  possessions,  and,  in  the  vernacular 
of  Sioux  Pass,  '*  lit  out  for  the  nearest  depot,  an'  boarded 
an  east-bound  train." 

3 


The  Late  Tenant 

He  had  now  been  in  England  a  month,  in  London  a 
week.  From  the  landing-stage  at  Liverpool  he  had 
gone  to  visit  the  country  cousins  who  superintended 
his  childhood  and  education  after  the  death  of  his 
mother,  that  lady  having  been  stricken  down  by  the 
hand  which  killed  her  soldier  husband  at  Dargai.  He 
found  the  cousins  snug  in  their  Bedfordshire  nest. 
The  squire-like  head  of  the  household  wondered  dully 
why  any  man  should  quit  a  place  where  he  could 
"get  on"  to  seek  a  precarious  livelihood  in  a  land 
which  was  "rapidly  going  to  the  dogs."  David  cer- 
tainly received  more  encouragement  from  the  younger 
members  of  the  family,  especially  from  a  bright-eyed 
maiden  of  eighteen,  who  thought  London  "awfully 
jolly,"  and  vowed  a  literary  career  to  be  "quite  too 
devey  for  anything." 

But  David  was  level-headed  enough  to  see  that 
the  verdict  of  squire  and  maid  were  equally  unfavor- 
able. 

Then  followed  a  few  days  in  a  big  hotel.  He  paid 
a  round  of  useless  calls  at  the  offices  of  magazines 
that,  to  his  certain  knowledge,  printed  all  sorts  of 
rubbishy  articles  about  cow-boy  life,  but  opposed  a 
phalanx  of  commissionaires  against  a  man  who  could 
not  only  round  up  an  infuriated  herd,  but  could  also 
describe  the  feat  deftly  with  a  pen.  Ultimately,  he 
resolved  to  lay  siege  to  the  citadel  which  he  was  unable 
to  storm,  and  pitch  his  camp  over  against  the  tents  of 
the  enemy.     He  took  a  furnished  flat,  "  with  plate  and 

4 


A  Whiff  of  Violets 

linen,  gas-stove,  electric  light,  bath  H.  and  C,"  for 
six  months. 

In  thus  becoming  a  Londoner,  he  encountered  the 
first  quaint  anomaly  of  London  life.  When  he  drove 
up  to  the  door  of  the  most  fashionable  hotel  in  the 
West  End,  and  deposited  a  couple  of  portmanteaus  in 
a  bed-room  after  signing  the  register,  he  was  permitted 
to  run  a  bill  for  a  week,  at  least,  without  let  or  hin- 
drance ;  but  when  he  offered  to  pay  cash  in  advance  for 
the  flat,  he  met  with  a  demand  for  "references." 

The  agent  was  firm  but  explanatory.  "  It  is  not  my 
client,  but  the  over-landlord,  who  makes  that  stipula- 
tion," he  said.  "In  fact,  the  letting  is  wholly  in  my 
hands,  as  the  late  tenant  is  dead ;  but,  for  certain  rea- 
sons, the  residuary  legatees  wish  to  keep  the  place  in  its 
present  condition  until  the  lease  expires  a  year  hence." 
Did  the  late  tenant  die  there  ?  "  asked  David. 
Well  —  yes  —  fully  five  months  since;  there  have 
been  other  occupants  subsequently,  and  the  terms  are 
so  reasonable  —  " 

"What  did  he,  or  she,  die  of?"  persisted  David. 
He  was  accustomed  to  reading  men's  faces,  and  he 
had  caught  a  certain  fluttering  of  the  agent's  eyelids. 

"Nothing  to  cause  any  alarm,  nothing  infectious,  I 
assure  you.  People  —  er  —  die  in  flats  just  the  same 
as  —  er  —  in  private  houses."  This,  being  a  joke, 
had  its  chuckle. 

But  the  agent  also  knew  men  in  his  own  way,  and 
he  felt  it  was  unwise  to  wriggle.     David  had  a  steadfast 

5 


(( 


a 


The  Late  Tenant 

glance.  He  gave  others  the  impression  that  he  heard 
and  treasured  each  word  they  uttered.  He  was  really 
wondering  then  why  the  speaker's  neck  was  so  long 
and  thin  —  nothing  more  serious,  but,  with  a  disagree- 
able disclosure  lurking  in  the  other's  mind,  David's 
scrutiny  compelled  candor. 

"  The  thing  is  bound  to  come  to  your  ears  sooner  or 
later,  Mr.  Harcourt;  so  I  may  as  well  tell  you  now," 
said  the  Londoner.  "The  late  tenant  was  a  lady,  a 
singer  of  much  promise,  it  was  said.  For  an  unknown 
reason  —  probably  some  love  affair  was  disturbing  her 
rest  —  she  —  er  —  took  an  overdose  of  a  sleeping- 
draft.  She  was  a  very  charming  woman,  quite  young, 
of  highest  character.  It  is  inconceivable  that  she  should 
have  committed  suicide.  The  affair  was  an  accident, 
of  course,  but  —  er  —  " 

"  A  sceptical  coroner  thought  it  a  murder  ?  " 
"  Oh,  dear,  no,  nothing  of  the  kind,  not  a  hint  of  such 
a  thing.  Fact  is  —  well,  it  sounds  ridiculous  to  say 
with  reference  to  a  popular  block  of  flats  in  the  middle 
of  London,  but  two  foolish  women  —  an  excitable 
actress  and  her  servant,  your  predecessors  in  the  flat 
—  have  spread  reports  as  to  queer  noises.  Well,  you 
know,  don't  you  ?  the  sort  of  nonsense  women  will 
talk." 

"In  plain  English,  they  say  the  place  is  haunted." 
"  Ha,  ha !     Something  in  that  nature.     You  have  hit 
it!     Something  in  that  nature.     Absurd  thing!" 

"Who   knows?"     David    had   a   cold    disbelief   in 

6 


A  Whiff  of  Violets 

spooks,  but  it  amused  him  to  see  the  agent  squirm; 
and  he  sat  tight.  Those  eyehds  fluttered  again,  and 
Mr.  Dibbin  banged  a  ledger  with  wrathful  fist. 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Harcourt,"  cried  he  finally.  "This 
is  a  five-guineas-a-week  flat.  I'll  make  you  a  fair 
offer;  take  it  for  six  months  and  I  give  it  you  at  half 
price. 

"I  laying  the  ghost  at  two  and  a  half  guineas 
weekly  ?  " 

"Put  it  any  way  you  like.  If  a  man  of  sound 
common-sense  like  you  lives  there  for  a  considerable 
period,  the  wretched  affair  will  be  forgotten;  so  it  is 
worth  the  loss  to  me,  and  it  is  a  first-class  bargain  for 
you." 

"Done!"  said  David. 

The  agent  was  so  pleased  that  his  annoyance  van- 
ished ;  he  promised  to  secure  a  woman  whom  he  knew 
to  look  after  the  new  tenant's  housekeeping.  She  had 
probably  never  heard  of  the  Eddystone  Mansions 
tragedy.  He  would  have  her  in  the  flat  within  four 
days.  Meanwhile  a  charwoman  might  attend  to  things 
generally. 

The  references  having  proved  satisfactory,  David 
was  now  passing  his  first  evening  in  his  new  abode. 
He  had  purchased  some  books  and  stationery;  his 
charwoman  had  left  him;  and,  when  the  door  had 
closed  behind  her,  he  turned  from  the  head  of  the 
dead  girl  in  chalks  over  the  mantelpiece  to  gaze  out 
of  the  dining-room  window,  and  back  again  to  the 

7 


The  Late  Tenant 

sweet  face  in  chalks,  to  return  presently  to  the  win- 
dow. 

It  was  a  Thursday  evening  in  the  last  week  of 
January.  The  housekeeper  was  to  arrive  on  Saturday. 
David  fixed  Monday  as  a  good  day  to  start  work.  In 
the  interim  he  meant  to  loaf,  dine  at  noteworthy 
restaurants,  read,  and  go  to  theaters. 

A  man  accustomed  to  guide  his  movements  by  the 
position  of  mountain-ranges  or  the  stars,  and  count 
distances  by  his  days  on  horseback,  is  likely  to  find 
himself  all  unhinged  within  a  four-mile  radius.  David 
was  in  the  novice  stage  of  acquaintanceship  with  the 
magnetic  life  of  the  world's  capital.  Not  yet  did  the 
roar  of  London  sing  in  familiar  harmonies;  the  crunch 
of  the  omnibuses,  the  jingle  of  the  hansoms,  made  no 
music  in  his  ears.  There  was  something  uncanny  in 
the  silence  of  the  millions  eddying  through  the  streets. 
Where  all  else  was  clamor,  mankind  was  dumb,  save 
for  the  shouts  of  the  newsboys,  the  jabber  of  bus- 
conductors,  the  cries  of  itinerant  venders. 

So  David,  having  dressed  and  gone  out,  wandered 
into  another  restaurant  than  that  which  he  was  aim- 
ing for;  dawdled  over  the  meal  until  the  first  act  of 
the  play  which  he  meant  to  see  must  have  been 
ended;  and  decided  then  upon  a  music-hall;  finally, 
he  strolled  back  toward  Eddystone  Mansions  as  early 
as  eleven. 

The  elevator,  placed  in  the  center  of  the  building, 
ran  from  the  basement  floor;  those  who  used  it  had  to 

8 


A  WhiJJ  of  Violets 

descend  a  few  steps  from  the  entrance  and  advance 
along  a  passage.  Harcourt  felt  unaccountably  tired  — 
there  is  a  strain  of  life  in  London  as  on  the  tops  of 
mountains  —  so  he  chose  the  lift  in  preference  to  the 
stairs. 

The  hall-porter,  who  sat  within  the  lift,  pondering 
the  entries  for  the  Spring  Handicaps,  recognized  him, 
and  jumped  up  with  a  salute. 

"  Good-evenin',  sir!  Fine,  frosty  night,  sir,"  said  he. 
They  began  to  ascend.  A  thought  occurred  to  David. 
"  What  was  the  name  of  the  lady  who  occupied  No.  7  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"Miss  Ermyn  L'Estrange,  sir,"  was  the  instant 
answer. 

Even  in  the  wilds  of  Wyoming  one  grasps  the  sig- 
nificance of  certain  classes  of  names.  For  instance, 
not  even  the  rawest  tenderfoot  would  expect  "One- 
eyed  Pete  "  to  turn  out  to  be  a  parson. 

"I  mean  the  lady  who  died  here,"  said  David. 

The  porter  stopped  the  lift.  "Your  floor,  sir,"  he 
said.  "  I've  only  bin  in  these  'ere  flats  a  matter  o'  two 
months,  sir." 

"  Good  egg ! "  cried  David.  "  Have  a  cigar,  porter. 
You  are  a  man  to  be  depended  on.  But  surely  there 
is  no  harm  in  telling  me  the  poor  girl's  name.  It  must 
have  appeared  in  all  the  newspapers." 

The  attendant  tickled  his  head  underneath  his  hat. 
The  new  tenant  of  No.  7  seemed  a  nice  gentleman, 
anyhow.     He  looked  up  and  down  the  stairs,  of  which 

9 


The  Late  Tenant 

two  sections  were  visible  from  the  landing  where  they 
stood. 

"  I  'ave  'eard,"  said  he,  "  that  a  young  lydy  used 
ter  live  'ere  of  the  nyme  of  Miss  Gwendoline 
Barnes." 

"Ah,  that  sounds  more  like  it.     Good-night." 

"Good-night,  sir." 

Harcourt,  fumbling  over  the  intricacies  of  the  lock, 
heard  the  rattle  of  the  lift  as  it  reached  the  basement. 
On  his  landing  were  two  doors,  his  own  and  that  of 
No.  8;  and  light  shone  from  his  neighbor's  dwelHng. 
That  was  companionable.  The  stairs,  too,  were  well 
lighted. 

At  last  he  gave  the  key  the  right  pressure,  and  the 
latch  yielded.  He  passed  within  and  closed  the  door 
noiselessly.  The  electric  switch  governing  the  hall- 
lamp  was  on  the  wall  beyond  the  short  entrance- 
passage.  He  removed  his  overcoat  and  hat  in  the 
semi-darkness;  the  sheen  coming  through  the  corru- 
gated-glass panels  of  the  outer  door  did  not  so  much 
as  cast  a  shadow. 

All  at  once  he  detected  a  fragrance  of  violets,  faintly, 
but  distinctly.  This  was  puzzHng!  He  knew  that  it 
was  almost  impossible  for  that  scent  to  have  been  there 
earlier  in  the  evening  when  he  was  at  home,  without 
being  marked  by  him.  Even  now  not  one  man  in  a 
thousand  in  London  that  night  would  have  caught  the 
subtle  perfume;  but  David  retained  the  hunter's  senses. 
As  he  stood  in  suspense,  a  feeling  peeped  and  grew  up 

10 


A  Whiff  of  Violets 

within  him  that  the  odor  carried  with  it  a  suggestion 
of  death;  his  muscles  grew  taut,  ready  to  fight,  to  defend 
himself  against  this  world  or  the  next. 

The  next  instant  he  smiled,  thinking:  "Nonsense! 
It  must  have  been  here  before.  Each  time  I  came  in 
I  was  smoking;  the  air  is  frosty,  too." 

He  groped  inward  for  the  switch,  turned  on  the 
light,  and,  without  deigning  to  give  another  thought  to 
the  smell  of  violets,  turned  to  the  left  along  the  main 
corridor,  which  was  rectangular  to  the  entrance-hall. 
Passing  the  drawing-room  door,  he  entered  the  dining- 
room.  Opposite  the  latter  was  the  kitchen  and  ser- 
vants' apartments.  Around  the  other  end  of  the  main 
corridor  were  disposed  three  bed-rooms  and  a  bath- 
room. The  light  he  had  turned  on  illuminated  entrance 
and  corridor  alike. 

In  the  dining-room  he  found  the  fire  still  burning. 
That  was  good.  The  coal-scuttle  was  not  by  the 
fireplace,  but  in  a  corner.  He  went  to  get  a  shovelful 
of  coal;  and  as  he  stooped,  again  came  to  him  the 
fragrance,  thrilling,  bringing  with  it  a  picture  of  a  girl 
whom  he  had  once  seen  lying  in  funereal  state,  sur- 
rounded by  flowers,  and  clothed  in  the  last  white  robes 
of  earth. 

David  stabbed  the  coals  with  the  shovel.  "What's 
wrong  with  me.'^"  he  half  laughed.  Yet  his  eyes 
sought  the  crayon  drawing  of  Gwendoline  Barnes. 

Presently  he  lit  a  cigar,  unfolded  an  evening  paper 
which  he  had  bought  in  the  streets,  and  tried  to  take 

11 


The  Late  Tenant 

an  interest  in  the  news  of  this  new-old  world  into 
which  he  was  new-born. 

But  his  mind  wandered.  Without  he  heard  the 
distant  rumble  of  traffic;  hansoms  were  beginning  to 
arrive  in  the  street  beneath;  he  heard  doors  slam; 
the  jingling  of  bells  on  head-stalls ;  feet  pattering  across 
the  pavement;  a  driver's  tongue-click,  and  away  would 
jog  a  horse,  to  be  stirred,  perhaps,  into  sudden  frenzy 
by  two  shrills  of  a  far-off  whistle. 

A  contrast,  these  sounds,  to  the  twig-snapping  and 
grass-rustling  of  a  night  on  the  plains!  There,  lying 
by  the  camp-fire  embers,  he  had  heard  the  coyote 
slinking  past  in  the  dark,  while  the  tethered  horses 
suspended  their  cropping  to  hearken.  Here  men  and 
streets  made  a  yet  stranger  wilderness.  He  sat  over 
the  hearth  absorbed  by  it,  already  yielding  his  tribute 
to  the  greatness  of  the  outer  ocean  of  life. 

But  prairie  or  city,  man  must  sleep.  David  rose 
and  went  to  the  sideboard  for  a  decanter.  A  certain 
graceful  slowness  characterized  his  movements.  Town- 
bred  men  might  have  been  deceived  thereby,  might 
reason  that  he  was  lethargic,  of  strapping  physique, 
certainly,  yet  a  man  who  could  be  hit  three  times 
before  he  countered  once.  It  is  this  error  of  judgment 
which  leads  to  accidents  when  town-dwellers  encounter 
the  denizens  of  the  jungle.  Harcourt's  hand  was  out- 
stretched for  the  decanter  when  he  became  aware  that 
he  was  not  alone  in  the  flat.  The  knowledge  was 
derived  from  neither  sight  nor  sound.     It  was  intuitive, 

12 


A  Whiff  of  Violets 

a  species  of  feeling  through  space,  an  imperative  con- 
sciousness that  he  shared  hU  suite  of  apartments  with 
another  distinct,  if  intangible,  being.  Many  men 
might  not  have  had  it,  but  Harcourt  had  it  clearly. 

Instantly  he  was  rigid.  This  time  he  was  weaving 
no  fantasy  round  a  whiff  of  violets.  The  sense  of 
nearness  to  other  presences  is  really  inherent  in  man. 
Residence  in  settled  communities  dulls  it,  but  in 
David  Harcourt  it  was  a  living  faculty.  He  stood 
motionless,  waiting  for  some  simple  proof  of  his  belief. 

The  door,  veiled  by  a  portiere,  was  not  closed,  but 
sufficiently  closed  to  prevent  any  view  of  the  corridor, 
which,  otherwise,  it  commanded  throughout.  The  flat 
was  carpeted  so  thickly  that  movement  was  silenced. 
But  David  fancied  that  a  woman's  dress  did  brush 
somewhere  against  wall  or  floor.  That  was  enough. 
He  was  about  to  spring  forward  and  pull  the  door 
open  to  see,  when  he  heard,  or  thought  that  he  heard, 
the  switch  of  the  light  outside  click,  as  if  it  had  been 
carefully  raised.  And  on  the  instant,  without  hesita- 
tion, he  pushed  up  the  switch  in  the  dining-room,  and 
hid  himself  in  darkness.  There  are  wolves,  too,  in 
the  London  desert. 

Now,  like  a  bush-cat,  he  crept  to  the  door,  opened 
it,  and  peeped  out.  Certainly  the  light  which  he  had 
left  burning  had  been  extinguished  by  some  hand;  the 
corridor  was  in  darkness,  i 

Nerves,  as  commonly  understood,  did  not  much 
enter  into  Harcourt's  scheme  of  things.     But  his  heart 

13 


The  Late  Tenant 

beat  quicker.  The  speed  of  thought  cannot  be  meas- 
ured. Many  questions,  and  one  doubt,  one  question, 
flitted  through  his  brain.  He  stood  in  deep  gloom; 
near  him,  he  was  convinced,  was  something  in  the  guise 
of  woman.  The  face  in  chalks  on  the  mantelpiece 
seemed  to  crowd  the  dark,  the  face  of  the  woman  who 
had  been  hovering  on  the  verge  of  his  consciousness 
ever  since  the  agent  had  mentioned  her  to  him. 


14 


CHAPTER  II 

A  SIGNATURE   WITH   A   FLOURISH 

He  was  collected  enough,  though  the  blood  was 
rather  cool  in  his  veins,  and  there  was  an  odd  sensi- 
tiveness at  the  roots  of  his  hair.  "Who  is  there?"  he 
asked  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice. 

There  was  no  answer,  and  now  he  had  a  feeling 
that  the  presence  was  drawing  nearer. 

He  was  unarmed,  of  course.  The  inseparable  six- 
shooter  of  the  West  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a  cabin-trunk 
in  his  bed-room.  But  his  faculties  were  exerted  to  an 
extent  hardly  possible  to  men  who  have  not  lived  close 
to  wild  nature.  He  conceived  that  his  safety  de- 
manded the  exercise  not  only  of  pluck,  but  of  artifice. 
So  he  stepped  softly  to  the  comer  by  the  entrance  to 
the  servants'  apartments,  and,  standing  there,  sought 
a  loose  match  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  held  it 
against  the  wall,  ready  to  light  it  at  an  instant's  notice. 
He  did  not  mean  to  sacrifice  to  any  chivalric  nonsense 
about  sex  the  opening  move  in  what  might  prove  to 
be  a  game  of  life  or  death.  The  woman,  or  whatever 
it  was,  showed  by  her  conduct  that  she  was  not  there 
by  some  mischance  capable  of  explanation;  he  would 
determine  by  her  first  move,  by  the  first  flash  of  light, 

15 


The  Late  Tenant 

how  to  deal  with  her;  and,  if  there  were  others  with  her, 
her  body  would  be  his  shield  until  he  gained  the  outer 
door  and  staircase.  And  so  he  waited,  with  the  alert 
patience  of  an  Indian,  poised  on  the  very  tip-toe  of 
action. 

But  as  time  passed,  and  there  was  no  further  sign  of 
life  in  the  corridor,  the  situation  became  over  trying. 
He  formulated  a  fresh  plan.  Behind  him  lay  the 
kitchen,  with  its  fire-irons,  and  thither  he  ran,  seized 
a  poker,  then  rushing  out  again,  had  the  corridor,  the 
drawing-room,  every  room,  alight.     But  he  saw  no  one. 

He  searched  each  room  with  eager  haste,  but  there 
was  nothing  out  of  the  common  to  be  discovered.  The 
front  door  was  closed  as  he  had  left  it.  He  ran  into 
the  exterior  lobby,  and,  keeping  an  eye  on  the  exit, 
summoned  the  elevator.  Up  it  came;  but  the  porter, 
throwing  open  the  doors,  checked  his  ready  salute  in 
his  alarm  at  the  sight  of  "  No.  7  "  facing  him  poker  in 
hand. 

"Have  you  seen  a  lady  go  out.^"  demanded  David. 

The  man  drew  back,  one  hand  on  his  lever  and  the 
other  on  a  sliding  trellis-work  of  iron. 

"N-no,  sir,"  he  stammered. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  said  David,  sharply.  "I 
want  you  to  keep  your  wits.  Some  one  has  been  in 
my  flat—" 

"  Is  that  so,  sir .?  " 

"  Where  have  you  been  during  the  last  five  minutes  ?  " 

"Down-stairs,  sir." 

16 


A  Signature  with  a  Flourish 

"  At  the  door  ?  " 

"No,  sir,  in  the  back,  not  five  yards  from  the  hft, 
sir."  He  thought  it  unnecessary  to  mention  that  he 
had  been  talking  to  the  housemaid  of  No.  2,  in  the 
basement  on  her  way  to  the  post. 

"So  any  one  could  have  gone  out  without  your 
knowledge  ?  " 

"If  they  went  by  the  stairs,  sir.'* 

"Come  in  and  help  me  to  search  my  place  again." 

The  porter  hung  back.  The  man's  sheepish  face 
was  almost  comical. 

"Come,  come,"  said  David,  "there  isn't  much  to 
be  afraid  of  now,  but  I  tell  you  that  some  one  put  out 
the  light  in  the  corridor,  and  I  am  almost  sure  that  I 
heard  the  stir  of  a  woman's  dress  somewhere." 

The  lift-attendant's  pallor  increased. 

"That's  just  it,  sir,"  he  murmured.  "The  others 
have  heard  it,  too." 

"Stuff!"  said  David,  turning  on  his  heel. 

Few  Britons  can  stand  contempt.  The  porter 
followed  him. 

"That's  a  man,"  said  David,  and  they  entered  the 
flat.     Harcourt  shut  and  bolted  the  door. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  you  mount  guard  in  the  passage, 
while  I  carry  on  the  hunt." 

He  would  have  disturbed  a  mouse  were  it  in  hiding, 
so  complete  was  his  second  scrutiny  of  every  nook. 
At  the  end  of  a  fruitless  quest  he  gave  the  porter  a 
whisky  and  soda. 

17 


The  Late  Tenant 

"I'll  tell  you  wot,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "there's  more 
in  this  than  meets  the  heye.  Miss  L'Estrange,  she 
never  saw  anythink,  but  she  'eard  all  sorts  o'  rummy 
noises,  an'  twiced  she  found  that  all  'er  things  'ad  bin 
rummidged.  An'  it  was  no  thief,  neither.  The  maid, 
she  acshully  sawr  the  pore  lydy.  If  I  may  s'y  it  in 
confidence,  sir,  and  you  wants  ter  be  comfortable, 
there's  No.  18  in  the  next  block — " 

"I  have  rented  the  place  for  six  months,  and  I  shall 
stay  in  it,"  said  David.  "  Have  another  ?  No  ?  Well, 
here  is  half  a  crown.  Say  nothing  about  to-night's 
adventure.     I  am  going  to  bed." 

"Lordy!  Goin'  ter  sleep  'ere  alone  .^"  gasped  his 
companion.     "I  wouldn't  do  it  for  a  pension." 

"Yet  I  am  paying  for  the  privilege.  However,  not 
a  word,  remember." 

"  Right  you  are,  sir.  'Ope  you'll  'ave  a  good  night's 
rest,  sir.  I'll  be  in  the  lift  for  another  'arf  hour,  if 
you  should  'appen  to  want  me." 

Left  to  himself,  David  bolted  the  outer  door  again, 
and  returned  to  the  dining-room.  Obeying  an  impulse, 
he  jotted  down  some  notes  of  the  occurrence,  paying 
special  heed  to  times  and  impressions.  Then  he  went 
to  bed,  having  locked  his  bed-room  door  and  placed 
his  revolver  under  his  pillow.  He  imagined  that  he 
would  remain  awake  many  hours,  but,  tired  and  over- 
wrought, he  was  soon  asleep,  to  be  aroused  only  by 
the  news-agent's  effort  to  stuff  a  morning  paper  into 
the  letter-box.     The  charwoman  was  already  in  the 

18 


A  Signature  with  a  Flourish 

flat,  and  the  sun  was  shining  through  the  drawn-thread 
pattern  of  the  blinds. 

"The  air  of  London  must  be  drugged,"  thought 
David,  looking  at  his  watch.  "Asleep  at  half-past 
eight  of  a  fine  morning!" 

Such  early-morning  reproaches  mark  the  first  stage 
of  town  life. 

After  breakfast  he  went  to  his  bank.  He  had  ex- 
pended a  good  deal  of  money  during  the  past  month, 
but  was  well  equipped  in  substantial,  owned  a  com- 
fortable home  for  six  months  —  barring  such  expe- 
riences as  those  of  the  preceding  night  —  and  found  at 
the  bank  a  good  balance  to  his  credit. 

"  I  will  hold  on  until  I  have  left  two  hundred  pounds 
of  my  capital  and  earnings  combined,"  he  decided; 
"  then  I  shall  take  the  next  mail  steamer  to  some  place 
where  they  raise  stock." 

He  called  at  the  agent's  office. 

"  Nothing  amiss,  I  hope  ? "  said  Mr.  Dibbin. 

"Nothing,  whatever.  I  just  happened  in  to  get  a 
few  pointers  about  Miss  Gwendoline  Barnes." 

Harcourt  found  that  in  London  it  was  helpful  to 
use  Americanisms  in  his  speech.  People  smiled  and 
became  attentive  when  new  idioms  tickled  their  metro- 
politan ears.  But  the  mention  of  the  dead  tenant  of 
No.  7  Eddystone  Mansions  froze  Dibbin's  smile. 

"What  about  her.^  Poor  lady!  she  might  well  be 
forgotten,"  he  said. 

"  So  soon  ?     I  suppose  you  knew  her  ?  " 

19 


The  Late  Tenant 


"Yes.     Oh,  yes." 

"Nice  girl?" 

The  agent  bent  over  some  papers.  He  seemed  to  be 
unable  to  bear  Harcourt's  steady  glance. 

"She  was  exceedingly  good-looking,"  he  answered; 
"tall,  elegant  figure,  head  well  poised,  kind  of  a  face 
you  see  in  a  Romney,  high  forehead,  large  eyes,  small 
nose  and  mouth  —  sort  of  artist  type." 

"  Wore  a  lot  of  lace  about  the  throat }  " 

"  What  ?    You  know  that  ?  " 

"Oh,  don't  be  startled,"  said  Harcourt.  "There  is 
her  head  in  chalks  you  know,  over  the  mantelpiece  —  " 

"Ah,  true,  true." 

"  I  wonder  if  it  was  she  or  some  other  lady  who  was 
in  my  flat  last  night  at  half-past  eleven." 

Dibbin  again  started,  stared  at  Harcourt,  and 
groaned. 

"If  it  distresses  you,  I  will  talk  of  something  else," 
said  Harcourt. 

"Mr.  Harcourt,  you  don't  realize  what  this  means 
to  me.  That  block  of  buildings  brings  me  an  income. 
Any  more  talk  of  a  ghost  at  No.  7  will  cause  dissatis- 
faction, and  the  proprietary  company  will  employ 
another  agency." 

"Now,  let  us  be  reasonable.  Even  if  I  hold  a 
seance  every  night,  I  shall  stick  to  my  contract  without 
troubling  a  board  of  directors.  I  am  that  kind  of 
man.  But,  meantime,  you  should  help  me  with 
information." 

20 


A  Signature  with  a  Flourish 

Dibbin  blinked,  and  dabbed  his  face  with  a  hand- 
kerchief.    "Ask  me  anything  you  hke,"  he  said. 

"When  did  Miss  Barnes  die?" 

"On  July  28  of  last  year.  She  lived  alone  in  the 
flat,  employing  a  non-resident  general  servant.  This 
woman  left  the  flat  at  six  o'clock  on  the  previous 
evening.  At  half-past  eight  A.  m.  next  day,  when  she  tried 
to  let  herself  in,  the  latch  appeared  to  be  locked. 
After  some  hours'  delay,  when  nothing  could  be  ascer- 
tained of  Miss  Barnes's  movements,  though  she  was 
due  at  a  music-master's  that  morning  and  at  a  re- 
hearsal in  the  afternoon,  the  door  was  forced,  and  it 
was  discovered  that  the  latch  was  not  only  locked  but 
a  lower  bolt  had  been  shot  home,  thus  proving  that 
the  unhappy  girl  herself  had  taken  this  means  of  show- 
ing that  her  death  was  self-inflicted." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  if  a  coroner's  jury  brought 
in  a  verdict  of  '  Death  from  Misadventure '  ?  " 

Mr.  Dibbin's  eyes  shifted  again  slightly.  "That 
was  —  er  —  what  one  calls  —  " 

I  see.  The  verdict  was  virtually  one  of  suicide  ?  " 
It  could  not  well  be  otherwise.  She  had  purchased 
the  sleeping-draft  herself,  but,  unfortunately,  fortified 
it  with  strychnine.  How  else  could  the  precautions 
about  the  door  be  explained  ?  That  is  the  only 
means  of  egress.  Each  window  is  sixty  feet  from  the 
ground." 

"Did  she  rent  the  flat  herself.^" 

"No.     That  is  the  only  really  mysterious  circum- 

21 


a 


{( 


(( 


f( 


The  Late  Tenant 

stance  about  the  affair.     It  was  taken  on  a  three  years' 
agreement,  and  furnished  for  her,  by  a  gentleman." 
Who  was  he  ?  " 

No   one  knows.     He   paid   cash  in   advance   for 
everything." 

David  was  surprised.  "Say,  Mr.  Dibbin,"  he 
queried,  "how  about  the  'references'  upon  which  the 
over-landlord  insisted  in  my  case  ?  " 

"What  are  references  worth,  anyhow?"  cried  the 
agent,  testily.  "In  this  instance,  when  inquired  into 
by  the  pohce,  they  were  proved  to  be  bogus.  A  bundle 
of  bank-notes  inspires  confidence  when  you  are  a  buyer, 
and  propose  to  part  with  them  forthwith." 

"  Surely  suspicions  were  aroused  ?  " 

The  agent  coughed  discreetly.  "This  is  London, 
you  know.  Given  a  pretty  girl,  a  singer,  a  minor 
actress,  who  leaves  her  home  and  lives  alone  in  apart- 
ments exceedingly  well  furnished,  what  do  people 
think?  The  man  had  sufficient  reasons  to  remain 
unknown,  and  those  reasons  were  strengthened  ten- 
fold by  the  scandal  of  Miss  Barnes's  death.  She  left 
not  even  a  scrap  of  paper  to  identify  him,  or  herself, 
for  that  matter.  All  we  had  was  his  signature  to  the 
agreement.  It  is,  I  believe,  a  false  name.  Would  you 
care  to  see  it  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  David. 

Dibbin  took  some  papers  from  a  pigeonhole.  Among 
them  David  recognized  the  deed  he  had  signed  a  few 
days  earlier.     A  similar  document  was  now  spread 

22 


A  Signature  with  a  Flourish 

before  him.  It  bore  the  scrawl,  "  Johann  Strauss," 
with  the  final  S  developea  into  an  elaborate  flourish. 

"A  foreigner,"  observed  David. 

"Possibly.     The  man  spoke  excellent  English." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  of  Lombroso,  Mr.  Dibbin  ? " 

"  Lombroso  ?  I  have  seen  the  name,  somewhere  in 
Soho,  I  think." 

"  Not  the  same,"  said  David  with  due  gravity.  "  The 
man  I  mean  is  an  Italian  criminologist  of  great  note. 
He  lays  it  down  as  a  principle  that  a  signature  of  that 
kind  is  a  sign  of  moral  degeneracy.  Keep  an  eye  on 
those  among  your  clients  who  use  such  a  flourish, 
Mr.  Dibbin." 

"Good  gracious!"  cried  the  agent,  casting  a  glance 
at  the  well-stuffed  letter-cases  of  his  office.  How  many 
moral  degenerates  had  left  their  sign  manual  there! 

"  Two  more  questions,"  went  on  Harcourt.  "  Where 
do  Miss  Barnes's  relatives  reside?" 

"  Her  name  was  not  Barnes,"  was  the  instant  answer; 
"  but  I  am  pledged  to  secrecy  in  that  regard.  There  is 
a  mother,  a  most  charming  woman,  and  a  sister,  both 
certainly  most  charming  ladies,  of  a  family  very  highly 
respected.  They  did  not  discover  the  unhappy  girl's 
death  until  she  was  long  laid  to  rest  — " 

"  Then,  why  is  the  flat  still  in  the  condition  in  which 
Miss  Barnes  inhabited  it  ? " 

"Ah,  that  is  simple  enough.  Isn't  the  agreement 
valid  for  nearly  a  year  yet  ?  When  that  term  expires, 
I  shall  dispose  of  the  furniture  and  hand  over  the 

2S 


The  Late  Tenant 

proceeds  to  the  young  lady's  heirs-at-Iaw,  subject  to 
direction,  of  course,  in  case  the  real  lessee  ever  puts  in 
a  claim." 

David  strolled  out  into  the  crowded  solitude  of  the 
streets,  with  a  vague  mind  of  Gwendoline  Barnes  and 
Johann  Strauss,  two  misty  personalities  veiled  under 
false  names.  But  they  so  dwelt  in  his  mind  that  he 
asked  himself  if  he  had  fled  from  the  pursuit  of  a 
living  woman  in  far  Wyoming  to  be  haunted  by  a 
dead  one  in  England  ?  Like  most  strangers  in  London, 
he  turned  to  the  police  for  counsel,  and  told  to  an 
inspector  on  duty  at  a  police-station  his  tale  of  the 
whiff  of  violets,  of  the  extinguished  light  in  his  corridor, 
and  of  the  real  or  fancied  brush  of  a  woman's  skirt 
somewhere  against  wall  or  carpet.  He  was  listened  to 
with  kindliness,  though,  of  course,  without  much  faith. 
However,  he  learned  from  the  inspector  the  address 
of  the  coroner's  court  where  the  inquest  had  probably 
been  held;  it  was  near  by,  and  David's  steps  led  him 
thither.  There  he  asked  some  questions  at  haphazard, 
without  picking  up  anything  of  fresh  interest;  unless  it 
was  that  "Gwendoline  Barnes"  lay  buried  in  Kensal 
Green  cemetery. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon.  He  strolled  down 
Tottenham  Court  Road  into  Holborn,  ate  a  deferred 
luncheon  in  Oxford-St.,  and  started  to  saunter  back 
home,  shirking  a  theater  matinee,  which  was  irksome 
since  it  was  the  fixed  thing  on  his  program.  But  it 
struck  him  half-way  home  that  his  charwoman  was 

24 


A  Signature  with  a  Flourish 

gone,  that  the  flat  was  lonely ;  he  got  into  a  cab,  saying 
to  the  driver:  "Kensal  Green  cemetery!  " 

Some  electric  lamps  were  a-flicker  already  in  the 
streets.  It  was  nearly  the  hour  at  which  London  roars 
loudest,  when  the  city  begins  to  pour  out  its  hordes, 
and  vans  hurry  to  their  bourne,  with  blocks  in  the 
traffic,  and  more  haste,  less  speed.  When  he  reached 
the  cemetery  the  closing  time  was  imminent. 

A  little  snow  lay  among  the  graves,  through  which 
the  grass-tufts  showed,  making  a  ground  of  black-and- 
white.  Some  few  stars  had  ventured  to  peep  from  the 
wintry  sky.  A  custodian  supplied  David  with  the 
formal  information  which  he  sought.  The  plot  of 
ground  had  been  bought  in  perpetuity;  it  was  in  a 
shaded  place  a  good  distance  from  the  entrance;  an 
lona  cross,  erected  by  friends,  marked  the  spot,  bearing 
the  one  word,  "Gwendoline." 

"It  is  late,  sir,"  said  the  man.  But  mighty  is  the 
power  of  the  tip,  even  in  cemeteries. 

David  walked  down  an  avenue  of  the  dead  toward 
the  little  mound  that  covered  the  young  actress.  He 
was  perhaps  twenty  yards  from  it  when  he  heard  and 
almost  stopped  at  the  sound  of  a  sob  not  far  away. 
He  looked  on  this  hand  and  on  that,  but  could  see  no 
one.  The  place,  with  its  silent  populace,  was  more 
lonesome  than  the  prairie;  and  a  new  sense  had  been 
steadily  growing  up  in  him  since  half-past  eleven  of 
the  previous  night  —  the  sense  of  the  "  other  world," 
of  its  possible  reality  and  nearness.     There  was  an 

25 


The  Late  Tenant 

odor  here,  strong  enough  to  his  keen  nostrils,  of  flowers, 
especially  of  violets,  and  of  the  last  end  of  mortal  man, 
a  blend  of  sweet  and  abhorrent  which  was  to  infect  his 
mind  for  many  a  day.  However,  he  did  not  hesitate, 
but,  with  slower  steps,  that  made  hardly  a  sound, 
turned  a  corner  of  the  path,  cleared  a  clump  of  trees 
which  had  blocked  his  view,  and  now  saw  the  grave  of 
Gwendoline,  the  cross,  the  chaplet  of  fresh  violets  at 
the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  over  the  cross  a  woman 
weeping. 

Weeping  bitterly,  her  face  in  her  hands,  she  was 
standing,  but  her  body  was  bent  in  grief,  and  she  was 
all  shaken  with  it,  though  little  sound  escaped  that 
lonely  passion  of  pity  and  heartbreak.  Harcourt  at 
once  felt  that  he  had  invaded  holy  ground.  He  gave 
himself  time  to  notice  only  that  she  was  tall,  cloaked 
wholly  in  black  —  and  he  turned,  or  half-turned,  to 
retire. 

But  in  his  haste  and  embarrassment  he  let  his  stick 
fall  from  his  hand;  whereat  the  young  woman  started, 
and  they  looked  at  each  other. 

In  an  instant  Harcourt  understood  that  she  was  the 
sister  of  her  whose  portrait  stood  on  his  mantelpiece; 
and  he  felt  that  he  had  never  seen  woman  so  lovely 
and  gentle. 


26 


CHAPTER  III 

VIOLET 

She  looked  at  Harcourt  with  wide  eyes,  seeming 
frightened,  in  suspense,  and  ready  to  fly,  because  he 
did  not  know  how  his  eyes  devoured  her. 

"  I  am  sorry  — "  he  began,  retiring  a  step. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  she  asked,  staring 
fixedly  at  him. 

"Nothing,"  he  said.  "Don't  be  alarmed;  I  am 
merely  here  by  chance." 

"  But  why  have  you  followed  me  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not  followed  you,  I  assure  you  of  that. 
I  did  not  know  that  you  were  here,  even.  I  beg  you 
not  to  be  alarmed  —  " 

"  Why,  then,  are  you  here  ? "  she  persisted. 

"This  is  a  public  cemetery,  you  know.  I  came  to 
see  a  grave,  just  as  you  have  — " 

"  This  grave  t " 

"How  can  you  possibly  guess  that,"  he  asked, 
"since  you  have  never  before  seen  me,  and  do  not 
know  who  I  am  ?  " 

"You  stopped  here,  did  you  not?"  she  asked. 
"You  stopped,  and  looked  strangely  at  me." 

"Certainly  I  looked  at  you,"  admitted  Harcourt. 

27 


The  Late  Tenant 

"I  did  not  realize  that  I  looked  'strangely.'  However, 
let  me  be  frank.  I  did  come  to  see  your  sister's 
grave." 

"My  sister!"  said  she,  shrinking,  as  from  the  touch 
of  a  wound,  *'  how  do  you  know  ?  what  interest  can 
you  have  strong  enough  to  bring  you  ?  " 

"  Not  such  a  very  strong  interest,"  he  answered. 
"I  am  here  merely  to  fill  an  idle  hour,  and  because  I 
happen  to  be  occupying  the  flat  in  which  your  sister 
died.  There  is  that  link  between  her  and  me;  she 
has  moved  in  the  same  little  home,  looked  from  the 
same  windows,  slept  in  the  same  room,  as  I,  poor 
girl." 

She  suddenly  looked  up  from  the  ground,  saying: 
"  May  I  ask  how  long  you  have  been  there  ?  " 

"This  is  only  the  second  day,"  he  answered  with  a 
reassuring  smile. 

"Your  interest  in  her  has  been  sudden." 

"But  her  crayon  portrait  is  there  over  my  dining- 
room  mantelpiece,  and  it  is  an  interesting  one.  The 
moment  I  saw  you  I  understood  that  you  are  her 
sister." 

"You  must  have  known  that  she  had  a  sister.'* 

"Why,  yes,  I  knew." 

"Who  told  you  that,  pray?" 

Her  manner  had  now  changed  from  one  of  alarm  to 
one  of  resentment,  of  mistrust.  Her  questions  leaped 
from  her  as  from  a  judge  eager  to  condemn. 

"Surely  it  was  no  secret  that  she  had  a  sister,"  he 

28 


Violet 

said.  "  The  agent  happened  to  mention  it  in  speaking 
to  me  of  the  late  tenant,  slz  agents  do." 

"Ah,  no  doubt,"  she  said  half  to  herself.  "You  all 
are  ready  enough  with  explanations.  Wise  as  serpents, 
if  not  harmless  as  doves." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  with  a  break  in  her 
voice  and  a  look  that  went  to  Harcourt's  heart.  He 
understood  that  he  was  in  the  presence  here  of  the 
strange,  of  a  mind  touched  to  wildness  by  a  monstrous 
grief,  and  needing  delicate  handling. 

"What  I  have  told  you  is  only  the  truth,"  he  said 
gently. 

"Ah,  no  doubt,"  she  said  again.  "But  did  you 
know  the  history  of  the  flat  before  you  went  into  it  ?  " 

"Why,  yes." 

"  Yet  you  went.     What,  then,  was  your  motive  ?  " 

"Ah,  now,  come,"  said  he.  "I  can  see  that  you  are 
on  a  wrong  track,  and  I  must  try  to  set  things  right. 
Your  sister  has  perhaps  been  badly  treated  by  some 
one  or  more  persons,  and  the  notion  has  occurred  to 
you  that  I  may  be  one  of  them,  or  may  have  some 
knowledge  even  of  one  of  them.  But  I  have  been  in 
England  only  a  month;  I  come  from  Wyoming,  a  place 
at  the  other  end  of  creation.  See  if  you  can't  catch  a 
hint  of  an  accent  in  my  speech.  I  never  saw  your 
sister  alive;  I  am  quite  a  stranger  in  London.  It  is 
not  nice  to  be  mistrusted." 

She  thought  this  over  gravely,  then  said  with  a 
moment's  openness  of  heart:  "Forgive  me,  if  I  give 

29 


The  Late  Tenant 

you  pain  unjustly";  but  at  once  again  she  changed, 
muttering  stubbornly  to  herself  with  a  certain  vindic- 
tiveness:  "If  I  mistrust  you,  it  is  not  for  nothing.  I 
suppose  you  are  all  about  equally  pitiless  and  deadly. 
There  she  lies,  low  enough,  dead,  undone  —  so  young 
—  Gwen !  was  there  no  pity,  no  help,  not  even  God  to 
direct,  not  even  God  ?  " 

Again  she  covered  her  face,  and  was  shaken  with 
grief,  while  Harcourt,  yearning,  but  not  daring  to  stir 
a  step  toward  her,  stood  in  pain;  till  presently  she 
looked  up  at  him  sharply  with  all  the  former  suspicious- 
ness, saying  with  here  a  sob  and  there  a  sob:  "But, 
after  all,  words  are  only  words.  You  can  all  talk,  I 
dare  say;  yet  you  have  not  been  able  to  give  me  any 
valid  explanation." 

"  Of  what  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Of  your  strange  interest  in  this  lady ;  of  your  pres- 
ence here  over  her  grave;  of  the  fact  that  you  chose  to 
occupy  the  flat,  knowing  what  you  know  of  it.  In 
my  mind  these  are  points  against  you." 

He  could  not  help  smiling.  "Let  me  reason  with 
you,"  said  he  earnestly.  "Remember  that  I  am  not 
the  first  person  who  has  occupied  the  flat  since  the 
death  of  your  sister.  Did  not  a  Miss  L'Estrange  have 
it  before  me  ?  Well,  my  motive  is  precisely  the  same 
as  hers  —  I  wanted  somewhere  to  live.  You  did  not 
attribute  to  Miss  L'Estrange  any  ulterior  motive,  I 
think  ?     Then  why  attribute  one  to  me  "^  " 

"I  attribute  nothing  to  any  one,"  she  sighed.   "I 

30 


Violet 

merely  ask  for  an  explanation  which  you  seem  unable 
to  give." 

"Think,  now!  Have  I  not  given  it?  I  say  that  I 
wanted  a  flat  and  took  this  one.  Don't  mistrust  me 
for  nothing!" 

"Oh,  I  keep  a  perfectly  open  mind.  Till  things  are 
proved  to  me,  I  mistrust  no  one.  But  you  make  your 
excuses  with  rather  too  much  earnestness  to  be  con- 
vincing; for  you  would  not  care  what  I  thought,  if  you 
had  no  motive." 

"My  motive  is  simply  a  desire  to  stand  well  with 
you,"  said  David.  "You  won't  punish  me  for 
that  ? " 

Now  for  the  first  time  she  looked  squarely  at  him, 
her  eyes  meditating  gravely  upon  his  face,  as  she  said: 
"If  you  never  knew  my  sister  before,  it  was  good  of 
you  to  come  to  her  grave.  You  do  not  look  like  one 
of  the  ruthless  ones." 

"No,  I  hope  not.  Thank  you  for  saying  that," 
said  David,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  He  was  shy 
with  women.  Such  a  girl  as  this  filled  a  shrine  in  his 
presence. 

"  And  yet,  who  can  ever  tell  ? "  she  sighed,  half  to 
herself,  with  a  weary  drop  of  the  hand.  "The  world 
seems  so  hopelessly  given  over  to  I  don't  know  what. 
One  would  say  that  men  were  compounded  of  fraud 
and  ill-will,  so  that  one  does  not  know  whom  to  trust, 
nor  even  if  there  is  any  one  to  be  trusted.  You  go  into 
the  flat  without  any  motive  apparently  that  you  can 

31 


The  Late  Tenant 

give.  You  would  never  have  managed  it,  if  I  had 
had  my  way!" 

"  Is  it  against  your  will  that  the  flat  has  been  let  ? " 
asked  David. 

"That  is  not  your  business,  you  know!"  she  said, 
quickly  resentful  of  probing  questions. 

"I  only  asked,"  said  he,  "in  order  to  tell  you  that 
if  it  was  against  your  will,  you  have  only  to  breathe  a 
wish,  and  I  shall  find  the  means  to  leave  it.*' 

"Well,  surely  that  is  kindly  said,"  she  answered. 
"  Forgive  me,  will  you,  if  I  seem  unreasonable  ?  Per- 
haps you  do  not  know  what  grief  is.  I  will  tell  you 
that  it  is  against  my  will  that  the  flat  has  been  let. 
My  mother's  doing;  she  insisted  because  she  suspected 
that  I  had  a  tendency  to  —  be  drawn  toward  the  spot ; 
she  feared  that  I  might  —  go  there ;  and  so  it  was  let. 
But  it  is  useless,  I  suppose,  for  you  to  give  it  up.  They 
would  only  let  it  to  some  one  else.  And  whoever  was 
in  it,  I  should  have  the  same  suspicions  — " 

That  word!  "Suspicions  of  what.?"  asked  David. 
"I  am  so  much  in  the  dark  as  to  what  you  mean!  If 
you  would  explain  yourself,  then  I  might  be  able  to 
help  you.     Will  you  let  me  help  you  ?  " 

"God  knows  what  the  truth  is,"  she  said  despond- 
ently, staring  downward  afresh,  for,  when  David 
looked  at  her,  her  eyes  fell.  "They  are  all  kind 
enough  at  first,  no  doubt,  and  their  kindness  ends 
here,  where  the  grass  grows,  and  the  winds  moan  all 
night,  Gwen.     I  do  not  know  who  or  what  you  are, 

32 


Violet 

sir,"  she  added,  with  that  puzzling  sharpness,  "or 
what  your  motive  may  be ;  but  —  what  have  you  done 
with  my  sister's  papers  ? " 

"  Papers  ? "  said  David.  "  You  surprise  me.  Are 
there  any  papers  of  your  sister's  in  the  flat  ?  " 

She  looked  keenly  at  him,  with  eyelids  lowered, 
seeking  to  read  his  mind  as  though  it  was  an  open 
book. 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  said  she. 

He  recalled  his  harmless  conversational  dodge  with 
Dibbin.  He  could  have  smiled  at  the  thought;  but  he 
only  answered:  "Surely  all  her  papers  have  been 
removed  ?  " 

Who  knows  ?  "  she  said  again,  eying  him  keenly. 
Certainly,  I  have  seen  no  papers!"  he  exclaimed. 
Well,  you  seem  honest." 

"I  hope  so." 

"If  you  did  happen  to  find  any  papers  in  the  flat, 
they  would  not  be  your  property,  would  they  ?  " 

"Of  course  not!" 
What  would  you  do  with  them  ?  '* 
I  should  give  them  to  you." 

"  God  grant  that  you  are  honest ! "  she  sighed.  "  But 
how  would  you  find  me  ?  " 

"  If  you  give  me  your  name  and  address  — " 

"My  name  is  Violet  Mordaunt,"  she  said  rapidly, 
as  if  venturing  against  some  feeling  of  rashness.  "  My 
home  is  at  Rigsworth  in  Warwickshire,  near  Kenil- 
worth ;  but  I  am  for  the  present  in  London,  at  — " 

33 


(( 


(( 


(( 


(( 


ie 


The  Late  Tenant 

Before  she  could  mention  her  London  address  they 
were  both  aware  that  a  third  person  was  with  them. 
The  hght  carpet  of  snow  would  not  have  deadened  the 
newcomer's  approach  to  David's  ears,  were  it  not  that 
he  was  so  absorbed  in  the  words,  the  looks,  the  merest 
gestures  of  his  companion.  David  heard  the  girl  say; 
"  Oh,  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt ! "  and  a  man  walked  past  him 
to  the  grave  with  lifted  hat.  The  man  and  Violet 
Mordaunt  shook  hands.  It  was  now  getting  dark; 
but  David  could  still  see  that  the  newcomer  was  an 
uncommonly  handsome  person,  turned  out  with  fault- 
less elegance  from  his  glossy  beaver  to  the  tip  of  his 
verni  boots ;  of  dark,  sallow  skin ;  and  a  black  mustache 
as  daintily  curled  as  those  mustaches  which  one  sees 
in  the  costumers'  windows.  David  stepped  back  a 
little,  and  stood  awkwardly.  Beside  this  West  End 
dandy  he  felt  that  he  was  somewhat  of  a  rough-rider, 
and,  like  most  young  men  dowered  with  both  brain 
and  sinew,  he  fancied  that  women  incline  more  readily 
to  the  trimly  dressed  popinjay  of  society.  Yet  Violet 
Mordaunt  seemed  anything  but  pleased  at  the  inter- 
ruption. 

"  I  am  come  to  look  for  you  by  the  request  of  your 
mother,"  David  heard  the  stranger  say.  "It  was 
feared  that  you  might  be  here,  and  I  am  to  take  you 
home,  if  you  will  do  me  the  honor  to  come  in  my 
carriage." 

"But  I  ought  not  to  be  tracked,"  said  Violet,  with  the 
quick  petulance  which  already  was  music  for  David. 

34 


Violet 

"There  is  the  question  of  tea  and  dinner,"  remarked 
Van  Hupfeldt.  "  If  a  lady  will  not  eat,  she  must  expect 
to  be  plagued." 

"I  prefer  to  walk  home." 

"That  couldn't  be  done;  it  is  too  far,"  said  Van 
Hupfeldt.  "  Oh,  come,  come ! "  he  went  on  pleadingly, 
with  a  fond  gaze  into  her  eyes. 

A  minute  afterward  they  left  the  grave  together. 
Van  Hupfeldt,  as  he  passed  David  on  the  path,  frowned 
momentarily;  Violet  slightly  inclined  her  head. 

He  looked  after  them,  and  admitted  to  himself  that 
they  made  a  handsome  pair,  tall,  like  children  of  the 
gods.  But  three  yards  away  after  they  had  passed 
him  something  fell  from  Violet  —  a  card  —  whether 
by  accident  or  design  David  did  not  know;  but  the 
thought  that  it  might  be  by  design  sent  a  thrill  through 
his  frame.  He  picked  it  up.  It  had  on  it  the  address 
of  a  boarding-house  in  Porchester  Gardens. 

He  was  yet  tinghng  with  the  hope  of  meeting  her 
again  when  a  custodian  approached.  "  Must  shut  the 
gates,  sir,"  he  said. 

And  the  clang  of  iron  brought  David  back  to  the 
roadway  and  reality  once  more. 


35 


CHAPTER  IV 


"JOHANN   STRAUSS  " 


On  Monday  morning  David  made  the  acquaintance 
of  the  genus  "housekeeper,"  when  the  woman  recom- 
mended by  Dibbin  arrived  to  take  him  in  hand.  He 
had  thought  that  she  would  sleep  in  the  place,  and 
had  rather  looked  forward  to  the  human  companion- 
ship, for  nothing  is  more  cut  off  from  the  world  of  the 
living  than  a  flat,  if  one  is  alone  in  it,  especially  through 
the  watches  of  the  night.  Surely,  if  there  are  ghosts 
in  want  of  undisturbed  house-room,  every  bachelor's 
flat  must  be  haunted. 

Mrs.  Grover,  the  housekeeper,  however,  said  that 
"sleeping  in"  was  not  the  arrangement  suggested  to 
her  by  Dibbin,  since  there  were  "the  children  to  be 
looked  after."  David,  for  his  part,  would  not  let  it 
appear  that  he  cared  at  all;  so  Mrs.  Grover,  a  busy 
little  fat  woman,  set  to  work  making  things  rattle,  on 
an  understanding  of  "sleeping  out"  and  freedom  for 
church  services  o'  Sunday. 

This  Monday  was  David's  appointed  day  for  be- 
ginning work.  But  he  did  not  prosper  very  well. 
Plenty  of  paper,  lots  of  ink,  and  a  new  gold  pen  make 
no   Shakespeare.     And   it   is   always   hard   to   begin, 

36 


^'Johann  Strauss'' 

even  when  the  mind  does  not  wander.  But  Violet 
Mordaunt  had  brown  eyes,  so  soft,  so  grave,  as  those 
that  beam  with  pity  over  the  dying.  She  was  more 
beautiful  than  her  sister,  whose  face,  too,  David  could 
see  through  the  back  of  his  head.  Also,  Van  Hup- 
feldt  was  undoubtedly  a  more  elegant  object  for  the 
eye  of  woman  to  rest  upon  than  David  Harcourt. 

David  wondered  if  Van  Hupfeldt  was  engaged  to 
Violet.  He  had  certainly  spoken  to  her  at  the  grave 
with  much  tender  gallantry  of  manner,  as  if  some- 
thing was  understood  between  them.  And  since 
Violet's  mother  sent  this  man  to  seek  her  in  his  car- 
riage, that  must  mean  that  they  were  on  familiar 
terms;  unless,  indeed,  the  mother  was  pressingly  anx- 
ious about  Violet,  could  not  go  herself,  and  had  no 
one  else  to  win  the  young  woman  home  from  her 
sister's  grave.  Such  questionings  were  the  cause  of 
long  pauses  between  the  writing  of  David's  sentences. 
He  was  glad  when  something  interrupted  —  when  the 
bell  rang,  and  Dibbin  was  ushered  in. 

"I  have  looked  in  for  one  minute  on  the  subject  of 
that  —  grate,"  said  the  agent.  "  Do  not  disturb  your- 
self, I  beg.  Well,  I  see  that  Mrs.  Grover  is  duly  in 
her  place,  and  you  as  snug  here  as  a  bird  in  its 
nest." 

"So  snug,"  said  David,  "that  I  feel  stifled.  It 
beats  me  how  people  can  get  so  accustomed  to  this 
sort  of  prison  as  not  even  to  remember  any  longer 
that  they  are  in  prison.     No  air,  no  room  to  stretch, 

37 


The  Late  Tenant 

coal-dust  in  your  very  soul,  and  even  at  night  in  your 
bed!" 

"Dash  it  all,  don't  say  it." 

"  Say  what  ?  " 

"  Were  you  about  to  refer  to  any  fresh  experiences  ?  " 

"Of  the  ghost?  Not  a  bit  of  it!"  said  David.  "I 
have  seen,  heard,  or  smelled  nothing  more  of  anything." 

"Good,  good!"  went  on  Dibbin,  softly.  "Keep  on 
like  that,  and  we  shall  pull  through  yet.  I  find  you 
are  well  stocked  with  violets,  meantime." 

David  laughed  a  little  uneasily,  and  said  "  Yes "  — 
no  more.  Whiffs  of  violets  in  a  lonely  flat,  for  which 
one  can't  account,  are  not  altogether  pleasant  things. 
David  had  therefore  surrounded  himself  with  violets, 
in  order,  when  he  was  greeted  with  a  scent  of  violets, 
to  be  able  to  say  to  himself  that  the  scent  came  from 
those  which  he  had  bought.  He  had  not  admitted 
even  to  himself  what  his  motive  was  in  buying;  nor 
would  he  admit  it  to  Mr.  Dibbin.  There,  however, 
the  violets  were  in  several  pots,  and  their  fragrance 
at  once  drew  the  notice  of  a  visitor,  for  the  London 
florist  has  an  art  to  heighten  dull  nature  in  violets 
and  much  else. 

"Have  a  seat,  Mr.  Dibbin,"  said  David,  "and  let 
us  talk." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  be  off, "  began  the  other. 

"Well,  have  a  B.  and  S.  any  way.  I  only  want  to 
hear  from  you  whatever  you  can  tell  me  of  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Violet  Mordaunt." 

38 


(( 


Johann  Strauss'' 


"  What  ?  You  have  discovered  their  names  ?  "  cried 
Dibbin  with  a  start. 

"I  have." 

"Mr.  Harcourt,  you  are  a  remarkable  man,"  said 
the  agent  with  quiet  certainty. 

"Oh,  not  too  remarkable.  But  since  I  do  know 
sometliing,  you  might  let  yourself  loose  as  to  the  rest, 
as  I  am  interested.  You  have  seen  the  mother,  I 
know.     Have  you  seen  the  daughter,  too  ?  " 

"Several  times." 

"Pretty  girl,  eh?     Or  what  do  you  think .^" 

Well,  I  am  getting  an  old  man  now,"  said  Dibbin; 
but  I  have  been  young,  and  I  think  I  can  remember 
how  I  should  have  felt  at  twenty-five  in  the  presence 
of  such  a  being." 

"Pretty,  you  think  her,  eh.^" 

"Rather!" 

"Prettier  than  Gwendoline.'^  Prettier  than  her 
sister  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  so  much  about  that  neither  — 
different  type  —  graver,  softer  in  the  eye  and  hair, 
taller,  darker,  not  so  young;  but  that  poor  dead  girl 
was  something  to  make  the  mouth  water,  too,  sir  — 
such  a  cut  diamond!  to  see  her  in  her  full  war-paint, 
turned  out  like  a  daisy !  —  in  short,  lovely  beings, 
both  of  'em,  both  of  'em." 

"Fairly  well  fixed,  the  mother.^" 

"You  mean  financially?  Oh,  I  think  so.  Got  a 
fine  place  down  in  Warwickshire,  I  know  —  not  far 

39 


The  Late  Tenant 

from  Kenilworth.  Good  old  family,  and  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"But  how  on  earth  this  man  Strauss,  more  or  less 
an  adventurer,  I  take  it,  could  have  got  hold  of  such 
a  girl,  to  the  extent  of  drawing  her  from  her  happy 
home,  and  sending  her  on  the  stage.  He  didn't  marry 
her,  Dibbin  ^     He  didn't  marry  her  }  " 

"How  can  I  say.^"  asked  Dibbin,  blinking.  "We 
can  all  make  a  shrewd  guess;  but  one  can't  be  abso- 
lutely certain,  though  the  fact  of  her  suicide  would 
seem  to  be  a  sort  of  proof." 

"  What  do  the  mother  and  Miss  Mordaunt  think 
of  it  .^  Do  they  assume  that  she  was  married  .^  Or 
do  they  know  enough  of  the  w^orld  to  guess  that  she 
was  not.^     I  suppose  you  don't  know." 

"They  know  what  the  world  thinks,  I'm  afraid," 
answered  Dibbin.  "I  am  sure  of  that  much.  Yes, 
they  know,  they  know.  I  have  been  with  Mrs.  Mor- 
daunt a  good  many  times,  for  one  reason  or  another. 
I  can  tell  how  she  feels,  and  I'm  afraid  that  she  not 
only  guesses  what  the  world  thinks,  but  agrees  with 
the  world's  view.  On  the  other  hand,  I  have  reason 
to  think  that  Miss  Mordaunt  has  an  obstinate  faith 
in  her  sister,  and  neither  believes  that  she  died  un- 
married, nor  even  that  she  committed  suicide.  Well, 
well,  you  can't  expect  much  clear  reasoning  from  a 
poor  sister  with  a  head  half  turned  with  grief." 

Dibbin  tossed  off  his  brandy,  while  David  paced 
the  room,  his  hands  behind  him,  with  a  clouded  brow. 

40 


(( 


Johann  Strauss  ^^ 


"  Have  they  no  protector,  these  women  ? "  he  asked. 
"  Isn't  Miss  Mordaunt  engaged  ?  " 

"I  fancy  not,"  said  the  agent.  "In  fact,  I  think 
I  can  say  undoubtedly  not.  She  was  not  engaged 
before  the  death  of  her  sister,  I  am  certain;  and  this 
disaster  of  her  sister  appears  to  have  inspired  the 
poor  girl  with  such  a  detestation  of  the  whole  male 


sex  — 


"Do  you  happen  to  know  who  a  certain  Mr.  Van 
Hupfeldt  is  ?  "  asked  David. 

"Van  Hupfeldt,  Van  Hupfeldt?  No,  never  heard 
of  him.     What  of  him  ?  " 

"He  seems  to  be  a  pretty  close  friend  of  the  Mor- 
daunts,  if  I  am  right." 

"He  may  be  a  close  friend,  and  yet  a  new  one," 
said  Dibbin,  "as  sometimes  happens.  Never  heard 
of  him,  although  I  thought  that  I  knew  the  names 
of  most  of  Mrs.  Mordaunt's  connections,  either  through 
herself  or  her  solicitors." 

"But  to  go  back  to  this  Strauss,"  said  David.  "Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  neither  the  mother  nor  Miss 
Mordaunt  ever  once  saw  him  .'' " 

"Not  once  that  they  know  of." 
Then,  how  did  he  got  hold  of  Gwendoline  ? " 
That's  the  question.  It  is  suspected  that  he  met 
her  in  the  hunting-field,  persuaded  her  to  meet  him 
secretly,  and  finally  won  her  to  fly  from  home.  To 
me  this  is  quite  credible;  for  I've  seen  Johann  Strauss 
twice,  and  each  time  have  been  struck  with  the  thought 

41 


a 


a  I 


The  Late  Tenant 

how  fascinating  this  man  must  be  in  the  eyes  of  a 
young  woman!" 

"What  was  he  hke,  then,  this  Mr.  Johann  Strauss 
of  the  flourishy  signature?" 

"A  most  handsome  young  man,"  said  Mr.  Dibbin, 
impressively;  "hard  to  describe  exactly.  Came  from 
the  States,  I  think,  or  had  lived  there  —  had  just  a 
touch  of  the  talk,  perhaps  —  of  Dutch  extraction,  I 
take  it.  Handsome  fellow,  handsome  fellow;  the 
kind  of  man  girls  throw  themselves  over  precipices 
after:  teeth  flashing  between  the  wings  of  his  black 
mustache  —  tall,  thin  man,  always  most  elegantly 
dressed  —  dark  skin  —  sallow  —  " 

At  that  word  "sallow,"  David  started,  the  descrip- 
tion of  Johann  Strauss  had  so  strangely  reminded 
him  of  Van  Hupf eldt !  But  the  thought  that  the  cause 
of  the  one  sister's  undoing  should  be  friendly  with 
the  other  sister,  paying  his  court  to  her  over  the  grave 
of  the  ill-fated  dead,  was  too  wild  to  find  for  itself  a 
place  all  at  once  in  the  mind. 

David  frowned  down  the  notion  of  such  a  horror. 
He  told  himself  that  it  was  dark  when  he  had  seen 
Van  Hupfeldt,  that  there  were  many  tall  men  with 
white  teeth  and  black  mustaches,  and  sallow,  dark 
skins.  If  he  had  felt  some  sort  of  antipathy  to  Van 
Hupfeldt  at  first  sight,  this  was  no  proof  of  evil  in  Van 
Hupfeldt's  nature,  but  a  proof  only,  perhaps,  of 
David's  capabilities  of  being  jealous  of  one  more 
favored  than  himself  by  nature  as  he  fancied  —  and 

42 


(( 


Johann  Strauss  ^^ 


by  Violet  Mordaunt,  which  was  the  notion  that 
rankled. 

And  yet  he  tingled.  Dibbin  had  said  that  this  Van 
Hupfeldt  might  be  "a  new  friend  —  one  who  had 
become  a  friend  since  the  death  of  Gwendoline." 

David  paced  the  room  with  slow  steps,  and  while 
Dibbin  talked  on  of  one  or  another  of  the  people  who 
had  known  Gwendoline  Mordaunt  in  the  flesh,  vowed 
to  himself  that  he  would  take  this  matter  on  his 
shoulders  and  see  it  through. 

"Speaking  of  the  Miss  L'Estrange  who  was  in  the 
flat  before  me,"  said  he;  "how  long  did  she  stay  in  it  ?'' 

"Three  months,  nearly,"  answered  Dibbin,  "and 
then  all  of  a  sudden  she  wouldn't  stay  another  day. 
And  I  had  no  means  of  forcing  her  to  do  so  either." 

"  What  ?     Did  the  ghost  suddenly  get  worse  ? " 

"I  couldn't  quite  tell  you  what  happened.  Miss 
Ermyn  L'Estrange  isn't  a  lady  altogether  easy  to 
understand  when  in  an  excited  condition.  Sufiice  it 
to  say,  she  wouldn't  stay  another  hour,  and  went  off 
with  a  noise  like  a  Catherine- wheel." 

"Quite  so.  But  I  say,  Dibbin,  can  you  give  me 
the  address  of  the  lady.'^" 

"With  pleasure,"  said  the  agent,  in  whom  brandy 
and  soda  acted  as  a  solvent.  "I  am  a  man,  Mr.  Har- 
court,  with  three  hundred  and  odd  addresses  in  my 
head,  I  do  assure  you.  But,  then.  Miss  L'Estrange 
is  a  bird  of  passage  — " 

"All  right,  just  write  down  the  address  that  you 

43 


The  Late  Tenant 

know;  and  there  is  one  other  address  that  I  want,  Mr. 
Dibbin  —  that  of  the  girl  who  acted  as  help  to  Miss 
Gwendoline  Mordaunt." 

Dibbin  had  known  this  address  also,  and  with  the 
promise  to  see  if  he  could  find  it  among  his  papers  — 
for  it  was  he  who  had  recommended  the  girl  —  went 
away.  He  was  hardly  gone  when  Harcourt,  who  did 
not  let  the  grass  grow  under  his  feet,  put  on  hat  and 
coat,  and  started  out  to  call  upon  Miss  Ermyn 
L'Estrange. 


44 


CHAPTER  V 

VON   OR   VAN? 

The  address  of  Miss  L'Estrange,  given  to  David 
by  Dibbin,  was  in  King's  Road,  Chelsea,  and  thither 
David  set  out,  thinking  in  his  cab  of  that  word  "  papers," 
of  the  oddness  of  Violet's  question  at  the  grave :  "  What 
have  you  done  with  my  sister's  papers  ?  " 

Whatever  papers  might  be  meant,  it  was  hardly  to 
be  supposed  that  Miss  L'Estrange  knew  aught  of  them, 
yet  he  hoped  for  information  from  her,  since  a  tenant 
next  in  order  is  always  likely  to  have  gathered  many 
bits  of  knowledge  about  the  former  tenant. 

As  for  his  right  to  pry  and  interfere,  that,  he  assured 
himself,  was  a  settled  thing.  Going  over  in  his  mind 
Violet's  words  and  manner  in  the  cemetery,  he  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  half  inclined  to  suspect 
that  he  was  her  sister's  destroyer,  who  had  now  taken 
the  flat  for  some  vaguely  evil  reason,  perhaps  to  seek, 
or  to  guard  from  her,  those  very  papers  for  which  she 
so  craved.  Had  she  never  heard,  he  wondered,  that 
her  sister's  evil  mate  was  a  man  with  a  black  mustache 
and  pale,  dark  skin  ?  Perhaps,  if  she  ever  had,  she 
would  suspect  —  some  one  else  than  he !  That  would 
be  strange  enough,  her  suspicion  of  the  innocent,  if  at 

45 


The  Late  Tenant 

the  same  time  the  guilty  was  at  her  side,  unsuspected! 
But  David  tried  to  banish  from  his  mind  the  notion 
that  Van  Hupfeldt  might  possibly  be  Johann  Strauss. 

At  Chelsea  he  was  admitted  to  a  flat  as  cozily  dim 
as  his  own,  but  much  more  frivolously  crowded  with 
knickknacks;  nor  had  he  long  to  wait  until  Miss 
L'Estrange,  all  hair  and  paint,  dashed  in.  It  was 
near  one  in  the  afternoon,  but  she  had  an  early-morn- 
ing look  of  rawness  and  deshabillement,  as  if  she  had 
just  risen  from  bed.  Her  toilet  was  incomplete.  Her 
face  had  the  crude  look  of  a  water-color  daub  by  a 
school-girl;  her  whirl  of  red  hair  swept  like  a  turban 
about  her  head. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  am  sorry  — "  began  David. 

"  Cut  the  excuses,"  said  Miss  Ermyn  L'Estrange. 
She  had  a  reputation  for  bruskness  which  passed  for 
wit  in  her  set. 

"I  am  the  occupant  of  the  flat  in  Eddys  tone  Man- 
sions which  you  recently  left." 

''I  hope  you  like  it." 
I  like  it  fairly  well,  as  a  flat." 
What  ?     Not  seen  anything  ?  '* 
No.     Anything  of  what  nature.'^'* 
Anything  ghostified,"  she  snapped,  sitting  with  her 
chin  on  her  palm,  her  face  poked  forward  close  to 
David's,    while   the   sleeve   fell   away   from   her   thin 
forearm.     She  had  decided  that  he  was  an  interesting 
young  man. 

46 


(( 


a 


a 


a 


Von  or  Van  ? 

"I  have  seen  no  ghost,"  he  said.  "I  don't  beheve 
I  ever  shall  see  one." 

"There  are  ghosts,"  she  said;  "so  it's  no  good  saying 
there  are  not,  for  my  old  Granny  Price  has  been  chased 
by  one,  and  there's  been  a  ghost  in  that  very  flat.  My 
servant  Jenny  saw  it  with  her  own  eyes." 

"It  is  always  some  one  else's  eyes  which  see  the 
invisible,"  said  David. 

"Jenny's  eyes  are  not  some  one  else's,  they  are  her 
own.  She  saw  it,  I  tell  you,  but  perhaps  you  are  one 
of  those  people  who  cower  under  the  sheets  all  night 
for  fright,  and  in  the  daytime  swear  that  there  are  no 
ghosts." 

"  What  ?     You  know  so  much  of  me  already  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  know  my  man  the  moment  I  lay  eyes  on 
him,  as  a  rule.  You're  from  Australia  —  I  can  tell 
your  twang  —  and  you  have  come  to  England  to  look 
for  a  wife.  Can't  very  well  get  along  without  us,  after 
all,  can  you  ?  " 

"There  is  some  truth  in  that.  What  a  pity  you 
didn't  see  the  ghost  yourself!" 

"I  heard  it;  I  smelled  it." 

"  Really  ?    What  did  it  smell  of  ?    Brimstone  ?  " 

"Violets!" 

David  started,  not  wholly  because  he  thought  Miss 
L'Estrange  would  be  flattered  by  this  tribute  to  her 
forcible  style. 

"And  I'm  not  one  of  vour  fanciful  ones  either,"  she 
went  on,  smirking  at  the  effect  she  had  made. 

47 


The  Late  Texiant 


"  How  often  did  this  thing  happen  to  you  ?  " 

"Twice  in  three  months." 

"  Daytime  ?     Night-time  ?  " 

"Dead  of  night.  The  first  time  about  two  in  the 
morning,  the  second  time  about  three.'* 

"To  me  this  is  naturally  fascinating,"  said  David. 
"Do  tell  me—" 

"  The  first  time,  I  was  asleep  in  that  front  bed-room, 
when  I  suddenly  found  myself  awake  —  couldn't  tell 
why,  for  I  hadn't  long  been  in  bed,  and  was  tired.  I 
found  myself  listening,  heard  some  creaks  about, 
nothing  more  than  you  can  generally  hear  in  a  house 
in  the  dead  of  night,  and  I  was  thinking  of  going  to 
sleep  again,  when  all  at  once  I  seemed  to  scent  violets 
somewhere.  I  wasn't  certain  at  first,  but  the  notion 
grew,  and  if  it  had  been  brimstone,  as  you  said,  I 
couldn't  have  been  so  overcome  as  I  was  —  something 
so  solemn  and  deathly  in  that  fume  of  violets  visiting 
anybody  in  the  dark  in  that  fashion.  As  I  knew  that 
Gwen  Barnes,  who  poisoned  herself  in  that  very  room, 
was  fond  of  violets  —  for  I  had  seen  her  both  on  and 
off  the  stage  several  times  —  you  can  guess  whether  I 
felt  rummy  or  not.  Pop  went  my  little  head  under  the 
bed-clothes,  for  I'll  stand  up  to  any  living  girl  you 
care  to  mention,  and  send  her  home  all  the  worse  for 
it;  but  the  dead  have  an  unfair  advantage,  anyhow. 
The  next  minute  I  heard  a  bang  —  it  sounded  to  me 
like  the  lid  of  one  of  my  trunks  dropping  down  —  and 
this  was  followed  by  a  scream.     The  scream  did  for 

48 


Von  or  Van  ? 

me  —  I  was  upset  for  weeks.  It  was  Jenny  who  had 
screamed ;  but,  like  a  fool,  I  thought  it  was  the  ghost  — 
I  don't  know  what  I  thought;  in  fact,  I  just  heard  the 
scream,  and  lay  me  down  and  d'eed.  When  I  came 
to  myself,  there  was  Jenny  shivering  at  my  side,  with 
the  light  turned  on,  saying  that  a  tall  woman  had 
been  in  the  flat  — " 

"  Was  Gwendoline  Barnes  in  the  flesh  a  tall  girl  ? " 
asked  David. 

"Pretty  tall;  one  would  have  called  her  tall." 

"  And  Jenny  was  certain  ?  She  had  really  seen  a 
woman  ?  " 

"Quite  certain." 


•j » 


a 


In  the  light  ? 

No,  in  the  dark." 

Ah,  that's  not  so  good.  And  as  to  your  trunk, 
had  you  left  it  locked  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't  think.  It's  certain  any^-ay  that  some- 
thing or  somebody  was  at  it  that  night;  for  next  day 
I  found  the  things  rummaged." 

"  Sure  now  ?  I  don't  imagine  that  you  are  very 
tidy." 

"The  cheek!     I  tell  you  the  things  were  rummaged." 

And  nothing  stolen  ?  " 

Ghosts  are  not  thieves.  They  only  come  back  to 
pretend  to  themselves  that  they  are  still  living  in  the 
old  scenes,  and  that  their  bit  of  a  fling  is  not  all  over 
forever.  I  can  well  imagine  how  the  poor  things  feel, 
can't  you  ?     Of  course,  nothing  was  stolen,  though  I 

49 


The  Late  Tenant 

did  miss  something  out  of  the  trunk  a  day  or  two 
afterward  —  " 

"  What  was  that  ?  " 

"My  agreement  with  the  theater.  Couldn't  find  it 
high  or  low  in  the  place;  though  I  was  pretty  sure  that 
I  had  put  it  into  that  very  trunk.  Three  weeks  after 
it  had  disappeared,  lo  and  behold !  my  agreement  comes 
to  me  one  morning  through  the  post!  No  letter  with 
it,  not  a  word  of  explanation,  just  the  blessed  agree- 
ment of  itself  staring  me  in  the  face,  like  a  miracle. 
Now,  I'm  rather  off  miracles  —  aren't  you  ?  So  I 
said  to  myself  —  " 

"  But  stay,  what  was  the  postmark  on  the  envelope 
which  brought  you  back  this  agreement  ?  "  asked  David. 

"Just  London,  and  a  six-barred  gate." 

"  You  couldn't  perhaps  find  that  envelope  now  ? " 

"Now,  do  I  look  like  anybody  who  ties  up  old  en- 
velopes in  packets .?  Or  do  you  take  me  for  an  old 
maid  ?     Because,  if  you  do,  just  let  me  know." 

"Certainly  not  an  old  one,"  said  David.  "But  how 
as  to  the  second  visit  of  the  ghost  ?" 

"  The  second  time  it  was  about  three  in  the  morning. 
Jenny  did  not  see  her  then;  but  we  both  woke  up  at 
the  same  moment  without  any  apparent  cause  —  we 
were  sleeping  together,  you  may  bet  your  last  dollar 
on  that !  —  and  we  both  smelled  something  like  violets, 
and  we  heard  a  sound,  too,  like  the  top  of  the  piano 
being  shut  down.  '  Miss  L'Estrange,'  Jenny  whispered 
into  my  ear,  *  there's  something  in  the  drawing-room.' 

50 


Von  or  Van  ? 

— '  Go,  Jenny,'  I  whispered  to  her,  *  and  see  what  it 
is.'  — *You  go,  Miss  L'Estrange,'  Jenny  whispered  to 
me,  'you  being  the  mistress;  and  I'll  come  after.'  — 
'But  you  are  the  servant,'  I  whispered  to  her,  *you  go.' 
— 'No,  Miss  L'Estrange,'  she  whispered  back,  'you 
are  braver  than  me,  you  go,  and  I'll  come  after.'  — 
'No,  you  know  that  you  are  much  the  bravest,  Jenny, 
so  don't  be  such  a  coward,'  I  whispered  to  her,  'and 
I'll  come  after.'  It  was  like  a  farcical  comedy.  At 
this  we  heard  something  like  a  chair  falling  upon  the 
carpet  in  the  drawing-room,  and  now  we  were  in  such 
a  state  of  fright  that  we  couldn't  move  our  hands,  to 
say  nothing  of  our  feet.  Then  a  long  time  passed,  we 
didn't  hear  anything  more;  so,  after  about  half  an  hour 
of  it,  Jenny  and  I  together  made  a  rush  for  the  switch, 
and  got  out  into  the  drawing-room.  Then  again  we 
scented  a  faint  something  like  violets;  but  nobody 
was  there,  and  we  neither  saw  nor  heard  anything 
more." 

"So,  after  that  second  experience,  I  suppose,  you 
would  stay  no  longer  in  the  flat  ?  "  said  David. 

"I  did  stay  a  few  days.  It  wasn't  altogether  the 
ghost  that  drove  me  away,  though  that  may  have  had 
something  to  do  with  it,  but  the  cheek  and  the  meanness 
of  the  man  who  put  me  there." 

"Of  the —  Ah,  I  beg  pardon,"  said  David,  with 
lowered  lids. 

"  Oh,  this  isn't  a  Sunday  school.  If  you  hem  and 
haw  at  me  I  shall  show  you  the  short  cut  to  the  front 

51 


The  Late  Tenant 

door.  It  was  a  fair  business  arrangement;  so  don't 
you  think  anything  else.  The  man  was  named 
Strauss,  and  whether  his  motive  in  putting  me  there 
was  quite  square  or  not,  don't  let  him  suppose  that 
I  am  going  to  screen  him,  for  I'm  not.  I  am  straight 
with  those  that  are  straight  with  me;  but  those  that 
are  up  to  mean  tricks,  let  them  beware  of  the  color  of 
my  hair  —  " 

"So  you  were  put  into  the  flat!" 

"  Didn't  I  go  into  it  rent-free  ?  Stop,  I  will  tell  you, 
and  you  shall  judge  for  yourself  whether  I  have  been 
shabbily  used  or  not.  One  night  last  August  I  was 
introduced  by  a  friend  to  a  gentleman  named  Strauss 
—  dark,  pale  man,  pretty  fetching,  but  not  my  style. 
However,  next  day  he  turned  up  at  my  place  —  I  was 
living  then  in  Great  Titchfield-St. ;  and  what  do  you 
think  my  man  wanted  ?  To  put  me  into  the  Eddystone 
Mansions  flat  for  six  months  at  his  expense,  on  the 
condition  that  I  or  Jenny  would  devote  some  time 
every  day  to  searching  for  papers  among  the  furniture. 
He  said  that  a  chum  of  his  had  once  occupied  the  flat, 
and  had  left  in  it  one  or  more  documents,  carefully 
hidden  somewhere,  which  were  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance; I  was  to  search  for  these,  and  give  them  to  him. 
Well,  I  didn't  half  like  it,  for  I  thought  he  was  wicked. 
So  I  asked  him  why  he  didn't  take  the  flat,  and  search 
for  the  papers  himself  at  his  leisure.'^  Well,  he  made 
some  excuse  or  other,  and  at  last,  as  he  talked  sanely 
enough,  I  struck  hands  over  it  —  rent  free,  six  months, 

52 


Von  or  Van  ? 
an  hour's  search  each  day;   and  Jenny  and  I  moved 


in." 


"Did  you  search  an  hour  each  day?"  asked  David 
with  a  laugh. 

"Hardly  likely!"  grinned  Miss  Ermyn  L'Estrange. 
"I  can  see  myself  searching  a  small  flat  day  after  day 
for  I  didn't  know  what,  like  a  goose.  There  was 
nowhere  to  search.  I  did  look  about  a  little  the  first 
day;  but,  not  finding  any  documents,  I  thought  to 
myself,  'Here  endeth.'  Of  course,  I  had  to  tell  him 
that  I  was  busy  searching,  for  that  man  pestered  me 
so,  you  wouldn't  believe.  He  never  actually  came  to 
the  flat,  for  some  reason  or  other;  but  night  after  night, 
when  the  theaters  opened  in  September,  there  he  was, 
wanting  to  know  if  I  had  found  anything,  if  I  had 
probed  the  cushions  w4th  hat-pins,  if  I  had  looked 
under  the  carpets,  and  the  rest  of  it.  At  last  I  began 
to  treat  him  a  bit  off-handedly,  I  admit,  and  before  the 
third  month  was  up,  he  says  to  me  one  night  that  if  I 
didn't  find  something  at  once,  he  would  have  to  cut 
off  the  allowance  for  the  rent.  I  told  him  that  he  had 
put  me  there  for  six  months,  that  I  had  made  all 
arrangements,  and  that  he  was  an  idiot.  If  he  didn't 
know  his  mind,  I  knew  mine.  Oh,  we  had  a  fine 
set-to,  I  can  tell  you.  He  said  that,  since  I  had  proved 
useless  to  him,  I  should  have  to  pay  my  own  rent,  so, 
what  with  ghosts  and  all,  I  wouldn't  stay  in  the  place 
another  two  days;  and  in  going  I  gave  it  hot  to  that 
Mr.  Dibbin,  too  — " 

53 


i( 


The  Late  Tenant 

What  had  Dibbin  done  ? "  asked  David. 
He  hadn't  done  anything;  but  still  I  gave  him  a 
piece  of  my  mind,  for  I  was  wild.'* 

"Poor  Dibbin!  he  is  still  shaky  from  it.  He  has 
mentioned  to  me  that  you  went  off  with  a  noise  like  a 
catherine-wheel.  But  you  never  found  any  papers  at 
all  in  the  flat  ?  " 

"  No  —  except  one,  or  rather  two,  and  those  Strauss 
never  got." 

"How  was  that.^" 

"  Because  I  didn't  find  them  till  the  day  after  we  had 
had  the  row,  when  my  trunks  were  ready  packed  to 
go,  and  I  wasn't  going  to  give  them  to  him  then,  for 
his  cheek.  Besides,  they  didn't  concern  him;  they 
were  only  a  marriage  certificate,  and  the  certificate  of 
a  birth  which  fell  out  of  a  picture." 

David  sat  up,  saying:  "How  do  you  mean,  'fell  out 
of  a  picture '  ?  " 

"As  we  were  carrying  out  the  trunks,  there  was  a 
bump,  and  one  of  the  pictures  in  the  corridor  came 
down.  The  boards  at  the  back  of  it  must  have  been 
loose,  for  they  fell  out,  and  among  them  was  an  envelope 
with  the  two  certificates  in  it." 

"Now,  I  bless  my  stars  that  ever  I  came  to  you," 
said  David.     "This  may  be  the  very  thing  I  want." 

"How  many  of  you  are  after  papers  in  that  flat,  I 
should  like  to  know.  First  there  was  Strauss,  then 
that  young  lady,  and  now  you  —  '* 

"  Which  young  lady  ?  "  asked  David. 

54 


Von  or  Van  ? 

"Why,  I  hadn't  been  in  the  flat  three  days  when  a 
young  lady,  a  tall,  dark  girl  came,  and  practically 
insulted  me.  She  wanted  to  know  what  was  my 
motive  for  coming  into  the  flat,  and  if  I  was  the  agent 
of  any  one,  and  if  I  meant  to  purloin  any  papers  which 
I  might  find.  Well,  I'm  not  one  for  taking  much  sauce 
from  another  woman;  for  I've  got  red  hair,  as  you  can 
see  for  yourself,  but  somehow  I  couldn't  be  hard  on 
her,  she  had  had  some  big  trouble,  I  could  tell  —  a  bit 
touched  somewhere,  too,  I  thought,  suspicious  as  a 
bird,  sick  at  the  very  name  of  Strauss!  She  had 
dropped  to  it  all  right  that  I  was  there  to  serve  Strauss's 
ends,  and  she  went  on  her  bended  knees  to  me,  asking 
me  not  to  do  it.  I  couldn't  quite  make  out  what  it 
was  all  about,  or  what  there  was  between  her  and 
Strauss,  for  she  wouldn't  tell  me.  It  was  something 
pretty  strong,  for  when  I  told  Strauss  about  her  visit, 
I  thought  the  man  was  going  to  drop  dead.  Her  name 
was  Violet  Mordaunt.  I  remember  it;  for  Mordaunt 
was  also  the  family  name  of  the  woman  in  the  marriage 
certificate  —  " 

"Why  did  you  not  send  this  marriage  certificate  to 
Violet  Mordaunt.^"  asked  David,  "since  you  did  not 
give  it  to  Strauss  ?  " 

"I  would  have  sent  it  to  her,  I'm  sure,  but  I  didn't 
have  her  address.  She  did  leave  me  an  address  that 
day  she  came;  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  didn't  take  the 
whole  to-do  about  papers,  papers,  papers,  seriously, 
and  Lord  knows  what  became  of  the  address  — " 


The  Late  Tenant 

"  Oh,  good  heavens,  how  selfish  and  careless ! " 
groaned  David. 

"  Look  here,  young  man,  you  come  from  Australia  ?  " 
cried  Miss  L'Estrange,  bouncing  up  from  her  chair. 
"In  London  people  look  after  themselves  and  mind 
their  own  business,  you  see.  We  are  as  kind-hearted 
here  as  they  are  anywhere  else,  but  we  haven't  the 
same  leisure  to  be  kind.  I  tell  you  that  if  I  had  had 
the  young  lady's  address  I  should  very  likely  have 
sent  her  the  papers;  but  I  didn't,  and  that's  all;  so 
don't  preach." 

"Well,  better  late  than  never,"  said  David.  "Just 
give  me  the  papers  now,  if  you  will,  for  I  know  her 
address  —  " 

"  But  where  are  the  papers  }  "  said  Miss  L'Estrange. 
"  You  don't  suppose  that  I  keep  papers  — " 

"  Don't  say  that  you  have  lost  them ! "  pleaded  David. 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  where  the  papers  are! 
I  was  in  a  regular  flurry,  just  moving  out  of  the  place; 
I  had  no  interest  in  the  papers.  I  glanced  at  them  to 
see  what  they  were,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  remember,  I 
threw  them  on  the  floor,  or  handed  them  to  Jenny. 
It's  just  possible  that  they  are  here  now;  but  I  shouldn't 
fancy  so.     I'll  ask  Jenny  when  she  comes  in." 

"Ah,  you  little  know  how  much  misery  you  might 
have  saved  a  poor  girl,  if  you  had  been  a  little  more 
thoughtful,"  growled  David,  and  his  wrath  seemed  to 
cow  the  woman  somewhat.  "  This  name  of  Mordaunt 
was  the  maiden  name  of  your  predecessor  in  the  flat, 

5Q 


Von  or  Van  ? 

who  took  the  name  of  (Gwendoline  Barnes;  Violet 
Mordaunt  is  her  sister;  Gwendoline  is  believed  by  all 
the  world,  including  her  own  mother,  to  have  been  led 
astray,  and  the  certificates  which  you  handled  so  lightly 
would  have  cleared  her  name  and  lifted  a  world  of 
grief  from  her  poor  sister's  heart." 

"Good  Lord!  How  was  I  to  know  all  that?" 
shrilled  Miss  L'Estrange,  staring.  "So  it  was  Strauss 
that  ruined  Gwen  Barnes  ?  And  this  Violet  Mordaunt 
was  Gwen  Barnes's  sister.'*  Now  you  say  it,  they 
were  something  alike.  I  always  put  down  that  Strauss 
for  a  rotter  — " 

"  But  why,  since  he  married  her  ?  " 

"  Married  whom  ?  Strauss  wasn't  the  husband's 
name  on  the  marriage-certificate!  Gwendoline  Mor- 
daunt was  one,  and  the  other,  as  far  as  I  can  recollect, 
was  a  foreign  name,  von  Somebody  or  other  — " 

"Von!"  David  also  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Are  you 
sure.'*  or  might  it  have  been  'van'.?  Oh,  try  now  to 
remember!     One  is  German,  the  other  Dutch!" 

"It  might  have  been  'van,'  or  it  might  have  been 
*  von '  —  you  can't  expect  one  to  remember  after  all 
these  names.  But  I  remember  the  woman's  name, 
Gwendoline  Mordaunt,  quite  well,  because  the  Gwen- 
doline reminded  me  of  Gwen  Barnes,  and  the  Mordaunt 
reminded  me  of  Miss  Violet  Mordaunt;  and  the  hus- 
band's name,  I  know,  was  von  or  van  Something,  and 
so  was  the  name  of  the  child  —  a  boy  it  was  —  I  think 
its  name  was  Henry  — " 

57 


The  Late  Tenant 

"Hupfeldt?"  suggested  David,  suddenly. 

"  Hupfeldt  ?  It  might  have  been  Hupfeldt.  I  really 
can't  say  now.     I'll  ask  Jenny." 

"At  any  rate,"  said  David,  calming  himself  with  a 
great  effort,  "  we  have  that  certain  fact  that  Gwendoline 
Mordaunt  was  a  wife.  Good,  to  begin ;  most  excellent, 
to  begin.  You  can't  say  where  the  marriage  took 
place  ?     No  other  information  at  all." 

"I'm  sorry,  since  it  is  so  mighty  important,  but  I'm 
afraid  not.  However,  I'll  do  my  best  for  you.  I'll 
see  if  I  or  Jenny  can  remember  anything.  When  we 
left  the  flat,  there  was  a  great  overflowing  with  my 
torn-up  letters,  and  Jenny  may  have  thrown  the  cer- 
tificates on  that  grate,  or  the  bits  of  them,  or  she  may 
have  dropped  them  on  the  floor,  or,  just  possibly,  she 
put  them  in  her  pocket  and  may  have  them  still.  She 
will  be  here  in  less  than  half  an  hour,  so,  if  I  may 
ojffer  you  a  cigar,  and  a  whisky  and  soda  — " 

"You  are  very  good.  I  won't  stay  now,  as  I  am  in 
a  hurry  to  do  something.  But,  if  I  may  come  back  — 
may  I  ?  " 

"Modest  request!  As  often  as  you  please,  and 
welcome.     This  is  Liberty  Hall,  you  know." 

"Thank  you,  I  will,  then.  There  is  one  thing  I 
have  to  ask  you.  Could  you  point  out  to  me  Mr. 
Johann  Strauss  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  if  I  saw  him.  But  I  never  knew  where 
he  lived,  and  have  never  seen  him  since  the  day  I  left 
the  flat." 

58 


Von  or  Van  ? 

"  Well,  that  may  come  in  time,"  said  David,  putting 
out  his  hand;  "and  meantime  you  will  do  your  best 
for  me  in  finding  out  about  the  two  certificates.  Thank 
you  for  all  your  goodness,  and  I  will  be  here  again 
soon." 

"Good-by,"  said  Miss  L'Estrange,  "and  I  do  hope 
you  mean  to  give  that  Strauss  a  sound  hiding  some 
day.  You  look  as  if  you  could  do  it  with  one  hand 
and  pick  your  teeth  with  the  other.  It  would  be  no 
more  than  he  deserves." 

David  ran  down  the  flight  after  flight  of  stairs  quicker 
than  he  had  gone  up. 

"Now,"  he  thought  to  himself  as  he  left  the  building 
with  eager  steps,  "is  my  chance  to  give  some  joy!" 
Going  into  the  first  paper-shop,  he  wrote:  "A  well- 
wisher  of  Miss  Mordaunt  desires  to  assure  her  that  it 
is  a  pretty  certain  thing  that  her  sister  Gwendoline 
was  a  duly  wedded  wife;  the  proofs  of  this  statement 
may  sooner  or  later  be  forthcoming." 

He  put  no  signature  to  it,  made  haste  to  post  it,  and 
drove  back  to  Eddystone  Mansions.  It  had  been  wiser 
had  he  flattered  Miss  Ermyn  L'Estrange  by  returning 
to  her. 


59 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  WORD  OF  JOY 

Not  many  guests  were  for  the  moment  at  No.  60A, 
Porchester  Gardens,  so  that  the  Mordaunts,  mother 
and  daughter,  who  always  stopped  there  during  their 
visits  to  London,  could  almost  persuade  themselves 
that  they  were  in  their  own  home.  In  the  good  old 
days  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harrod,  the  proprietors,  had  been 
accustomed  to  receive  three  Mordaunts  to  their  hos- 
pitality, when  Gwen,  the  bright  and  petted,  came  with 
Violet  and  Mrs.  Mordaunt.  Only  two  now  visited 
London,  a  grayer  mother,  a  dumber  sister;  and  though 
the  Harrods  asked  no  questions,  made  no  prying  into 
the  heart's  secret,  nor  uttered  any  word  of  sympathy, 
they  well  divined  that  the  feet  of  the  angel  of  sorrow 
had  passed  that  way,  and  expressed  their  pity  silently 
by  a  hundred  little  ministries. 

Violet  and  Mrs.  Mordaunt  were  having  tea  in  the 
drawing-room  on  the  day  of  David  Harcourt's  visit 
to  Miss  L'Estrange,  when  the  postman's  knock  sounded, 
and  a  minute  later  Mrs.  Harrod  herself  came  in,  say- 
ing: 

"A  letter  for  Miss  Violet,  and  it  contains  good 
news;  for  I  dreamt  of  soldiers  last  night,  and  so  sure 

60 


The  Word  of  Joy 

as  I  dream  of  soldiers,  so  sure  are  there  letters  with 
good  news."  "* 

"The  good  news  will  all  be  in  the  other  people's 
letters,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Mordaunt.  "Good 
news  is  like  wealth,  Mrs.  Harrod,  unequally  divided; 
to  some  of  us  it  never  comes." 

"Oh,  come  now!"  cried  the  hearty  Mrs.  Harrod. 
"  Never  say  die,  say  I !  There's  good  and  bad  in  store 
for  everybody;  and  care  killed  a  cat,  after  all.  Don't 
I  tell  you  I  dreamt  of  soldiers  ?    And  so  sure  — " 

"It  is  that  good  heart  of  yours  which  makes  you 
dream  of  soldiers.  To  bring  healing  to  some  lots  in 
this  world,  you  would  have  need  to  dream  of  generals 
and  field-marshals  —  " 

"Some  more  tea,  mother.^"  interposed  Violet.  She 
shrank  from  the  threatened  talk  of  human  ills.  Mrs. 
Mordaunt,  most  excellent  woman,  was  not  adverse  to 
pouring  some  of  her  grief  into  a  sympathetic  ear. 

"Well,  you  will  tell  me  at  dinner  whether  I  was 
right,"  cried  Mrs.  Harrod,  and  was  gone. 

She  had  placed  the  letter  on  the  tray,  and  there  it 
still  lay  unopened.  Violet  handed  the  tea  to  her 
mother.  The  room  was  empty,  save  for  them,  the 
few  other  guests  being  out,  and  in  the  house  reigned 
perfect  quietude,  a  peacefulness  accentuated  by  the 
wheels  and  hoofs  passing  in  the  dusk  outside. 

"Vi,"  said  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  "those  flowers  at  your 
waist  are  almost  faded;  I  think  you  might  give  up 
violets  in  London.     They  don't  seem  to  me  the  same 

61 


(( 


a 


a 


it 


a  . 


The  Late  Tenant 

thing  as  in  the  country;  but  at  least  let  them  be  fresh. 
Mr.  Van  Hupf eldt  will  be  here  presently  — " 

"How  do  you  know,  mother.?" 
He  mentioned,  dear,  that  he  would  be  coming." 
But  why,  after  all,  every  day.'^" 
Is  that  displeasing  to  you,  dear?" 
It  seems  superfluous." 

That  compels  me  to  suggest  to  you,  Vi,  that  his 
coming  to-day  is  of  some  special  importance." 

"  And  why,  pray  ?  " 

"  Can  you  not  guess  ?  " 

The  girl  stood  up;  she  walked  restlessly  to  the  win- 
dow and  back  before  she  cried:  "Mother!  mother! 
Have  you  not  had  experience  enough  of  the  curse  of 
men  ? "  Her  great  eyes  rested  gloomily  on  the  older 
woman's  face.  There  was  a  beautiful  heredity  marked 
in  the  pair;  but  seldom  have  more  diverse  souls  been 
pent  within  similar  tabernacles. 

"Don't  speak  so  recklessly,  dear,"  said  the  old 
lady.  "You  had  the  best  of  fathers.  There  are 
good  men,  too,  in  the  world,  and  when  a  man  is  good, 
he  is  better  than  any  woman." 

"It  may  be  so.  God  knows.  I  hope  it  is  so.  But 
is  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt  one  of  these  fabulous  beings  ?  It 
has  not  struck  me  —  " 

"Please,  Violet,  don't  imagine  that  I  desire  to  in- 
fluence you  in  the  slightest  degree,"  said  Mrs.  Mor- 
daunt.  "I  merely  wish  to  hint  to  you  what,  in  fact, 
you  can't  be  blind  to,  that  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt's  inclina- 

62 


The  Word  of  Joy 

tions  are  fixed  on  you,  and  *hat  he  will  probably  give 
expression  to  them  to-day.  On  Saturday  he  ap- 
proached me  on  the  subject,  beseeching  me  with  great 
warmth  to  hold  out  to  him  hopes  which,  of  course, 
I  could  not  hold  out,  yet  which  I  did  not  feel  author- 
ized wholly  to  destroy.  At  any  rate,  I  was  persuaded 
upon  to  promise  him  a  fair  field  for  his  enterprise 
to-day." 

"Oh,  mother!  Really,  this  is  irritating  of  you!" 
cried  Violet,  letting  fall  with  a  clatter  a  spoon  she  had 
lifted  off  the  table. 

"But  I  don't  see  it.  Why  so.?" 
"It  sounds  so  light-minded,  at  your  years!" 
"As  if  I  was  one  of  the  two  parties  concerned!" 
laughed  Mrs.  Mordaunt  with  a  certain  maternal  com- 
placency. She  knew,  or  thought  she  knew,  her  way- 
ward daughter.  With  a  little  tact  this  most  suitable 
marriage  could  be  arranged. 

"No,"  admitted  Violet,  angry  at  the  weakness  of 
her  defense,  "but  you  allow  yourself  to  be  drawn 
into  having  a  hand  in  what  is  called  a  love-affair  be- 
cause it  is  an  event;  and  it  was  not  fair  to  Mr.  Van 
Hupfeldt,  since  you  knew  quite  well  beforehand  what 
would  be  the  result." 

"Well,  well,"  purred  Mrs.  Mordaunt  good-hu- 
moredly,  looking  down  to  stroke  the  toy  Pom  on  her 
lap,  a  nervous  little  animal  which  one  might  have 
wrapped  in  a  handkerchief,  "I  will  say  no  more.  If 
the  thought  of  allowing  myself  to  be  bereft  of  you  has 

63 


The  Late  Tenant 

occurred  to  me,  you  understand  for  whose  good  I 
gave  it  a  moment's  entertainment.  Marriage,  of 
course,  is  a  change  of  Hfe,  and  for  girls  whose  minds 
have  been  overshadowed  by  sorrow,  it  may  not  be 
altogether  a  bad  thing.'* 

"But  there  is  usually  some  selection  in  the  matter, 
I  think,  some  pretense  of  preference  for  one  above 
others.     Just  marriage  by  itself  hardly  seems  a  goal." 

"  Yes,  love  is  good,  dear  —  none  knows  better  than 
I  —  but  better  marriage  without  love,  than  love  with- 
out marriage,"  muttered  Mrs.  Mordaunf,  suddenly 
shaken. 

"And  better  still  life  with  neither,  it  seems  to  me; 
and  best  of  all,  the  end  of  life,  and  good-by  to  it  all, 
mother." 

"Vi,  Vi!  sh-h-h,  dear!"  Mrs.  Mordaunt  was  so 
genuinely  shocked  that  her  daughter  swung  the  talk 
back  into  its  personal  channel. 

"Still,  I  will  not  see  this  man.  Tell  him  when  he 
comes  that  I  will  not  see  him.  He  has  held  out  to  me 
hopes  which  he  has  done  nothing  to  fulfil." 

"What  hopes,  dear?" 

"  You  may  as  well  know :  hopes  as  to  —  Gwen, 
then." 

"Tell  me." 

"Twice  he  has  hinted  to  me  that  he  knows  some 
one  who  knew  the  man  named  Strauss ;  that  he  would 
succeed  in  finding  this  Strauss;  that  all  was  quite, 
quite  well ;  and  that  he  did  not  despair  of  finding  some 

64 


The  Word  of  Joy 

trace  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  child.  He  had  no 
right  to  say  such  things,  if  he  had  not  some  real 
grounds  for  beheving  that  he  would  do  as  he  hinted. 
It  is  two  months  ago  now  since  he  last  spoke  in  this 
way  down  at  Rigsworth,  and  he  has  not  referred  to  it 
since,  though  he  has  several  times  been  alone  with  me. 
I  believe  that  he  only  said  it  because  he  fancied  that 
whatever  man  held  out  such  hopes  to  me  would  be 
likely  to  find  me  pliant  to  his  wishes.  I  won't  see  liim 
to-day." 

"  Oh,  he  said  that,  did  he  —  that  all  was  quite  well, 
that  he  might  be  able  to  find  .  .  .  But  he  must  have 
meant  it,  since  he  said  it." 

"  I  doubt  now  that  he  meant  it.  Who  knows  whether 
he  is  not  in  league  with  the  enemies  of  her  who  was 
cast  helpless  to  the  wolves — " 

"Violet,  for  shame  to  let  such  words  escape  your 
lips !  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt  —  a  man  of  standing  and 
position,  presented  to  us  by  Lord  Vanstone,  and  mov- 
ing in  the  highest  circles!  Oh,  beware,  dear,  lest 
sorrow  warp  the  gentler  instincts  of  your  nature,  and 
by  the  sadness  of  the  countenance  the  heart  be  not 
made  better!  Grief  is  evil,  then,  indeed  when  it  does 
not  win  us  into  a  sweeter  mood  of  charity.  I  fear,  Vi, 
that  you  have  lost  something  of  your  old  amiableness 
since  the  blow." 

"Forgive  me,  darling!"  sobbed  Violet,  dropping 
quickly  by  the  side  of  her  mother's  chair,  with  her 
eyes    swimming.      "It    has    gone     deep,    this    wild 

Q5 


The  Late  Tenant 

wrong.     Forgive,  forgive!     I  wish  to  feel  and  do  right; 
but  I  can't.     It  is  the  fault  of  the  iron  world." 

"No,  don't  cry,  sweet,"  murmured  Mrs.  Mordaunt, 
kissing  her  warmly.  "  It  will  come  right.  We  must 
repress  all  feelings  of  rebellion  and  rancor,  and  pray 
often,  and  in  the  end  your  good  heart  will  find  its  way 
back  to  its  natural  sweetness  and  peace.  I  myself  too 
frequently  give  way,  I'm  afraid;  the  ways  of  Provi- 
dence are  so  inscrutably  hard.  We  must  bear  up, 
and  wait,  and  wait,  till  *  harsh  grief  pass  in  time  into 
far  music'  As  for  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt,  there  seems  no 
reason  why  you  should  see  him,  if  you  do  not  wish. 
But  you  haven't  opened  your  letter  —  see  if  it  is  from 
Rigs  worth,  dear." 

Violet  now  rose  from  her  mother's  side,  and  tore 
open  the  letter.  She  did  not  know  the  handwriting, 
and  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  words  she  started.  They 
were  these:  "A  well-wisher  of  Miss  Mordaunt  desires 
to  assure  her  that  it  is  a  pretty  certain  thing  that  her 
sister  Gwendoline  was  a  duly  wedded  wife.  The 
proofs  of  this  statement  may  sooner  or  later  be  forth- 
coming." 

Mrs.  Mordaunt's  observant  glance,  noting  the 
changes  of  color  and  expression  going  on  in  her  daugh- 
ter's face,  saw  that  the  news  was  really  as  Mrs.  Harrod 
had  dreamed.  Violet's  eyes  were  raised  in  silent 
thanksgiving,  and,  without  saying  anything,  she 
dropped  the  note  on  her  mother's  lap.  Going  to  one 
of  the  windows,  she  stood  there  with  tremulous  lips. 


The  Word  of  Joy 

She  looked  into  the  dim  street  through  a  mist  of  tears. 
For  the  moment,  speech  was  impossible. 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  some  minutes. 
Then  Mrs.  Mordaunt  called  out:  "  Vi,  dear,  come  here." 

Violet  ran  from  the  window  with  a  buoyancy  of 
dancing  in  her  gait.  "Heaven  forgive  us,  mother, 
for  having  wronged  Gwendoline  in  our  thoughts!" 
said  she,  with  her  cheek  against  her  mother's. 

"Heaven  forgive  me  rather,"  said  Mrs.  Mordaunt. 
"You,  dear,  have  never  for  a  moment  lost  faith  and 
hope.     Butstill,  Vi— " 

"Well?" 

"Let  me  warn  you,  dear,  against  too  much  con- 
fidence in  this  note.  The  disappointment  may  be  all 
the  more  terrible.  Why  could  not  the  sender  sign  his 
name  ?  Of  course,  we  can  guess  from  whom  it  comes ; 
but  does  not  the  fact  that  he  does  not  sign  his  name 
show  a  lack  of  confidence  in  his  own  statements  .^ " 

"Oh,  I  think  not,"  cried  Violet,  flushed  with  en- 
thusiasm, "if  it  is  from  whom  you  think;  but,  who, 
then,  do  you  think  sent  it.'*" 

"It  can  only  be  from  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt,  child,  I 
take  it." 

The  girl  was  seemingly  taken  aback  for  an  instant; 
but  her  thoughts  bubbled  forth  again  rapidly:  "Well, 
his  motive  for  not  signing  his  name  may  simply  be  a 
very  proper  reserve,  not  a  lack  of  confidence  in  his 
statements.  Remember,  dearest,  that  he  is  coming 
here  to-day  with  a  certain  purpose  with  regard  to  me, 

67 


The  Late  Tenant 

and  if  he  had  signed  his  name,  it  would  have  set  up  a 
sort  of  claim  to  my  favor  as  a  reward  for  services  done. 
Oh,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  call  this  most  generous 
of  the  man!" 

"That's  splendid,  that's  right,"  said  Mrs.  Mor- 
daunt.  "Your  instincts  always  scent  out  nobility 
where  any  clue  to  it  can  be  found.  I  am  glad  that  you 
take  it  in  that  way.  But  young  people  are  enthusiastic 
and  prone  to  jump  to  conclusions.  As  we  grow  older 
we  acquire  a  certain  habit  of  second  thoughts.  In 
this  instance,  no  doubt,  you  are  right;  he  could  have 
had  no  other  motive  —  unless  —  I  suppose  that  there 
is  no  one  else  from  whom  the  note  may  possibly  have 

At  this  question  Violet  stood  startled  a  moment, 
panting  a  little,  and  somehow  there  passed  like  a  mist 
through  her  consciousness  a  memory,  a  half-thought, 
of  David  Harcourt. 

"From  whom  else  could  it  have  come.'^"  she  asked 
her  mother  breathlessly. 

"The  handwriting  is  not  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt's,"  said 
Mrs.  Mordaunt,  "This  is  a  less  ornate  hand,  you 
notice." 

Violet  took  the  note  again,  and  knit  her  pretty  brows 
over  it.  "No,"  she  said,  "this  is  a  much  stronger, 
cleaner  hand  —  I  don't  know  who  else  —  " 

"Yet,  if  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt  wished  to  be  generous 
in  the  sense  of  which  you  spoke,"  said  her  mother,  "if 
it  was  his  purpose  to  conceal  his  part  in  the  matter,  he 

68 


<( 


<( 


The  Word  of  Joy 

would  naturally  ask  some  one  else  to  write  for  him. 
And,  since  we  can  imagine  no  one  but  him  —  There ! 
that,  I  think,  is  his  rap  at  the  door.  Tell  me  now,  Vi, 
if  you  will  see  him  alone  ?  " 

Yes,  mother,  I  will  see  him." 
Bless  you  for  your  good  and  grateful  heart !  Well, 
then,  after  a  little  I  will  go  out.  But,  oh,  pray,  do 
nothing  precipitate  in  an  impulse  of  joy  and  mere 
gratitude,  child!  If  I  am  bereft  of  my  two  children, 
I  am  bereft  indeed.  Do  find  happiness,  my  darling. 
That  first  and  above  all." 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Harrod  looked  in,  with  her 
pleasant  smile,  saying:  "Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt  is  here. 
Well,  did  the  letter  contain  good  news  ?  " 

*'You  dear!"  murmured  Violet,  running  to  kiss  her, 
"I  must  wear  red  before  you,  so  that  you  may  dream 
of  soldiers  every,  every  night!" 

The  steps  of  Van  Hupfeldt  were  heard  coming  up 
the  stairs. 


69 


CHAPTER  VII 

violet's  conditions 

Van  Hupfeldt  bowed  himself  into  the  drawing- 
room.  His  eyes  wandering  weighingly  with  a  quick 
underlook  which  they  had  from  the  face  of  Violet  to 
that  of  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  and  back  again  to  Violet.  He 
saw  what  pleased  him,  smiles  on  both  faces,  and  his 
brow  lightened.  He  was  a  man  of  about  forty,  with 
a  little  gray  in  his  straight  hair,  which,  parted  in  the 
middle,  inclosed  the  forehead  in  a  perfect  arch.  He 
stood  upon  thin  legs  as  straight  as  poles.  His  hands 
and  feet  were  small.  His  features  as  regular  and 
chiseled  as  a  statue's;  he  looked  more  Spanish  than 
Dutch. 

Mrs.  Mordaunt  received  him  with  a  pressure  of  the 
hand  in  which  was  conveyed  a  message  of  sympathy 
and  encouragement,  and  Van  Hupfeldt  bent  toward 
Violet  with  a  murmur: 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  bright  to-day." 

"You  observe  quickly,"  said  Violet. 

"Some  things,"  answered  Van  Hupfeldt. 

"Our  good  hostess  has  been  dreaming  of  soldiers, 
Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt,"  put  in  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  lightly, 
"and  it  seems  that  such  a  dream  always  brings  good 

70 


Violet's  Conditions 

news  to  her  guests;  so  mv  daughter  is  feeling  the 
effects  of  it." 

Van  Hupfeldt  looked  puzzled,  and  asked:  "Has 
Miss  Violet  heard  that  her  orchids  are  flourishing  in 
her  absence,  or  that  those  two  swans  I  promised  have 
arrived  ?  " 

Violet  and  Mrs.  Mordaunt  exchanged  glances  of 
approval  of  this  speech,  the  latter  saying:  "There  are 
brighter  tilings  in  the  world  than  orchids,  thank 
Heaven!  and  a  kind  deed  may  be  more  white  and 
graceful  than  all  the  swans  of  Dale  Manor." 

Van  Hupfeldt  looked  still  more  puzzled  —  a  look 
which  was  noted  by  the  women,  but  was  attributed  by 
them  to  a  wish  not  to  seem  to  know  anything  of  the 
joyful  note,  and  was  put  down  to  his  credit.  After 
some  minutes'  talk  of  a  general  nature,  Mrs.  Mor- 
daunt went  out.  Violet  sat  in  an  easy-chair  at  one  of 
the  balcony  windows.  Van  Hupfeldt  leaned  against 
the  embrasure  of  the  window.  He  seemed  to  brace 
himself  for  an  effort  before  he  said  to  her: 

"  This  is  Monday  evening,  and  since  Saturday,  when 
I  brought  you  from  the  cemetery,  I  have  not  once 
closed  my  eyes.  If  you  continue  to  manifest  this 
inconsolable  grief  for  your  sister's  fate,  I  must  break 
down  in  some  way.  Something  will  happen.  I  shall 
go  crazy,  I  think." 

"You  mean  very  kindly,  I  suppose,"  answered 
Violet,  with  lowered  lids;  "though  I  do  not  see — " 

"No,  you  cannot  see,  you  do  not  know,"  said  he, 

71 


The  Late  Tenant 

with  a  certain  redness  and  strain  in  the  eyes  which 
made  it  a  credible  thing  that  he  had  not  slept  in  some 
time.  "But  it  is  so.  It  has  been  the  craving  of  my 
life  to  save  you  from  this  grief.  Let  me  do  it;  you 
have  to  let  me  do  it!" 

"  How  save  me  .^ "  she  asked,  with  an  upward  glance 
under  her  long  lashes,  while  she  wondered  at  the  blaze 
in  the  man's  eyes.  "I  am  not  to  be  saved  from  it 
by  any  means,  though  it  will  be  lessened  by  the  proofs 
of  my  sister's  honor  and  of  her  child's  fair  name,  and 
by  the  discovery  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  child. 
There  are  no  other  means." 

"Yes,  there  are!  There  is  the  leaving  of  your 
present  Hfe,  the  companionship  of  one  who  will  have 
no  care  but  to  make  you  happy,  to  redress  a  little  in 
you  the  wrong  done  to  your  sister.  That  is  my  motive 
—  God  knows !  —  that  is  my  main  motive  — " 

"Surely  I  do  not  understand  you  aright!"  cried 
Violet,  somewhat  dismayed  by  his  outburst,  "Your 
motive  is  to  redress  a  wrong  done  by  some  one  to  my 
sister  by  devoting  yourself  to  make  me  happy?  Cer- 
tainly, that  seems  a  most  nobly  disinterested  motive; 
but  is  philanthropy  of  this  sort  the  best  basis  for  the 
kind  of  proposition  which  you  are  making  me  ?  Philan- 
thropy most  certainly  would  wear  thin  in  time,  if  it 
did  not  rest  on  affection  — " 

"  Do  you  doubt  that  I  have  affection  ?  "  he  demanded, 
his  voice  vibrating  with  ill-repressed  passion. 

"  As  an  afterthought }  " 

72 


Violet's  Conditions 

"How  as  an  afterthou^Iit,  when  my  life  itself  de- 
pends upon  continually  seeing  you,  and  seeing  you 
happy?  I  tell  you  that  if  you  were  to  refuse  my 
prayer  this  evening,  if  anything  was  to  happen  now 
or  in  the  future  to  thwart  my  cravings  with  respect 
to  you,  my  mind  is  made  up,  I  would  not  continue  to 
face  the  harrowing  cark  of  life.  Say  '  No '  to  me,  and 
from  to-morrow  evening  you  will  be  tortured  by  the 
same  worm  of  remorse  by  which  the  man  who  caused  ' 
the  death  of  your  sister  must  be  gnawed  and  gnawed. 
You  talk  of  affection  ?  I  have  that.  I  do,  yes,  I  do 
love  you;  but  that  would  be  the  flimsiest  motive  com- 
pared with  this  passion  which  casts  me  at  your  feet." 

"I  don't  understand  him,'*  sighed  Violet  to  herself 
—  and  no  wonder,  for  Van  Hupfeldt's  words  came 
from  him  in  a  sort  of  hiss;  his  eyes  were  bloodshot;  he 
stooped  close  over  her,  with  veins  standing  out  on  his 
forehead.  It  was  clear  enough  that  the  man's  soul 
was  in  this  wooing,  yet  he  made  so  little  pretense  of 
the  ordinary  lover's  love.  He  left  her  cold,  this  woman 
made  for  love,  and  she  wondered. 

"Tell  me  quickly,"  he  said,  "I  think  that  your 
mother  is  not  unwilling.  Only  let  me  hear  the  word 
*Yes,'  and  the  *when'  shall  be  left  to  you." 

"Pray  listen,  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt,"  said  Violet,  bend- 
ing over  her  knee,  which  she  slung  between  her  clasped 
fingers.  "Let  us  reason  together;  let  us  understand 
each  other  better.  I  am  not  disposed  to  be  unfriendly 
toward  you  —  do  not  think  that  —  nor  even  to  reject 

73 


The  Late  Tenant 

your  suit  unconditionally.  I  owe  you  much,  and  I 
see  that  you  are  greatly  in  earnest;  but  I  am  not  clear. 
Your  motive  seems  to  be  philanthropic.  You  have 
said  as  much  yourself,  you  know.  Still,  philanthropy 
is  only  warm;  it  is  never  hot  to  desperation;  it  never 
commits  suicide  in  despair  of  doing  good.  That, 
then,  is  the  first  thing  which  I  fail  to  understand  in 
you.  And,  secondly,  I  do  not  grasp  why  you  desire 
any  closer  relation  to  be  set  up  between  us  for  my 
happiness,  when  I  assure  you  that  nothing  but  the 
rehabilitation  of  my  sister's  name  could  lighten  my 
unhappiness,  and  that,  this  once  done,  nothing  further 
could  possibly  be  done  by  any  one  to  attach  me  more 
to  Hfe." 

"But  I  am  older  than  you,  and  know  better," 
answered  Van  Hupfeldt,  seating  himself  beside  her, 
speaking  now  more  calmly.  "You  know  nothing  of 
the  kingdoms  of  the  world  and  the  glory  of  them. 
Travel  alone  would  give  you  a  new  outlook.  I  should 
ever  be  inventing  new  pleasures  and  excitements  for 
you.  Sometimes,  already,  I  lie  awake  at  night,  think- 
ing them  out.  I  am  very  rich,  and  all  my  wealth 
should  be  turned  into  one  channel,  to  delight  you. 
You  know  nothing  of  society  in  the  States,  of  the 
brilliance  and  abandon  of  life  across  the  Atlantic. 
And  the  Paris  heau  monde,  with  its  charm  and  wit  and 
easy  joyousness,  you  know  nothing  yet  of  that.  I 
should  find  the  means  to  keep  you  constantly  gay,  to 
watch  you  in  ever  new  phases,  costumes,  jewels  — " 

74 


Violet's  Conditions 

The  thought  passed  through  Violet's  mind:  "He 
has  distinguished  manners,  but  a  vulgar  mind,"  and 
she  said  aloud:  "So  that  is  how  you  would  wean  me 
from  sorrow,  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt  ?  I  should  prefer  a 
week  of  Dale  Manor  with  my  birds  and  flowers  to  a 
cycle  of  all  that." 

"Then  it  shall  be  Dale  Manor  rather  than  'all 
that,' "  he  agreed.  "  It  shall  be  just  as  you  would 
have  it,  if  only  you  will  be  happy,  and  will  give  me  a 
glance  one  day  which  means  '  My  happiness  is  due  to 
you.'     May  I  have  another  peep  at  the  locket?" 

Violet  took  a  locket  from  her  neck,  pressed  a  spring, 
and  showed  within  a  miniature  in  water-colors  of  the 
dead  Gwen.  She  shivered  a  little.  Though  she  was 
speaking  of  her  sister,  the  man's  sudden  request  jarred 
on  her. 

"I  like  to  look  at  it,"  said  Van  Hupfeldt,  bending 
closer.  "  It  reminds  me  of  you  —  chiefly  about  the 
mouth  and  chin,  about  the  dear  little  chin.  She 
suffered,  yes,  she  tasted  sorrow,  and  since  she  suffered, 
you  must  not  suffer,  too.  I  kiss  her  instead  of  you, 
because  she  was  like  you." 

This,  certainly,  was  an  odd  reason  for  Van  Hup- 
feldt's  tenderness  to  the  miniature,  but  Violet's  heart 
instantly  warmed  toward  him  for  his  pity  of  her  be- 
loved; and  when  he  replaced  the  locket  round  her 
neck,  saying:  "So,  then,  do  we  understand  each  other 
now  ? "  she  found  it  hard  to  answer :  "  I'm  afraid  that 
I  am  as  far  from  understanding  as  ever." 

75 


The  Late  Tenant 

"That  will  come  in  time,  trust  me,''  said  he;  "but 
as  to  that  little  word  '  Yes,'  is  it  to  be  taken  as  uttered 
nowr 

"No,  not  now,"  she  said  gently,  "though  do  not  go 
away  thinking  it  may  never  be.  Let  me  be  frank, 
Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt.  You  know  quite  well  that  I  am 
not  at  present  disposed  to  worship  your  sex,  and  that 
is  really  so.  Honestly,  I  don't  think  that  the  human 
species  adorns  the  earth  on  which  it  lives,  least  of  all 
the  male  part  of  it.  If  I  wished  to  marry,  I  believe  I 
should  choose  some  poor  tiller  of  the  fields,  who  had 
never  seen  a  city,  or  heard  of  the  arts  of  vice.  You 
see,  then,  that  the  whole  notion  of  marriage  must  be 
sufiiciently  distasteful  to  me.  I  wouldn't  and  couldn't 
give  myself;  but  I  am  quite  willing  to  —  to  make  a 
bargain." 

"  A  bargain  ?  "  He  started,  and  his  dark  eyes  stared 
at  her  blankly. 

"Yes,  it  is  better  to  be  candid.  When  you  have 
cleared  my  sister's  name,  or  found  the  child,  as  you 
hope  to  be  able  to  do,  then,  if  you  desire  me  still  the 
same,  you  will  again  speak  to  me.  I  cannot  definitely 
part  from  my  freedom  without  a  certainty  that  you 
will  be  able  to  do  what  you  hope;  and  it  is  only  fair  to 
you  to  let  you  know  that  I  should  probably  consent  to 
give  the  same  promise  to  any  other  man  who  would 
and  could  do  this  much  for  me." 

Upon  this  Van  Hupfeldt's  brow  flushed  angrily, 
and  he  leaped  to  his  feet,  crying :  "  But  that  will  never 

76 


Violefs  Conditions 

be !  Clear  your  sister's  nax^e  ?  You  still  talk  like  a 
child—" 

Now  it  was  Violet's  turn  to  stand  up  in  astonish- 
ment, as  she  saw  her  castle  in  the  clouds  diminishing. 
She  stared  in  her  turn,  with  open  lips,  crying:  "Do  you 
say  this  ?  that  it  will  never  be  ? " 

"How  can  you  set  a  man's  hfe  on  the  chance  of  the 
realization  of  such  a  mere  dream?"  asked  Van  Hup- 
feldt,  irritated,  saying  more  than  was  wise. 

"  A  dream  ? "  murmured  Violet,  as  if  in  a  dream 
herself.     "  Then,  who  is  it  that  has  sent  me  this  ? " 

Thereupon  she  drew  from  her  pocket  David  Har- 
court's  unsigned  note.  She  held  it  out  to  Van  Hup- 
feldt,  and  he,  without  touching,  leaned  over  and  read 
it;  apparently  slowly;  more  than  once,  so  Violet  thought. 
He  stood  there  looking  at  the  letter  an  unconscionable 
time,  she  holding  it  out  for  him  to  read,  while  the 
man's  face  bled  away  inwardly,  as  it  were  to  death, 
and  some  power  seemed  to  rivet  his  eyes,  some  power 
stronger  than  his  effort  to  withdraw  them. 

The  thought  passing  through  Van  Hupfeldt's  soul 
was  this:  "Some  one  knows  that  she  was  a  'duly 
wedded  wife.'  But  who.^  iVnd  how  .^  To  him  it  is 
somehow  *a  pretty  certain  thing';  and  the  proofs  of  it 
*may  sooner  or  later  be  forthcoming';  and  then  he 
will  give  these  proofs  to  Violet." 

"  I  see,  then,  that  it  was  not  you  who  sent  it  to  me," 
said  Violet  at  last,  and,  as  she  said  it,  a  certain  gladness, 
a  little  thrill  of  relief,  occurred  somewhere  within  her. 

77 


The  Late  Tenant 

Van  Hupfeldt  straightened  himself.  His  lips  were 
white,  but  they  smiled  dreadfully,  though  for  some 
part  of  a  second  he  hesitated  before  he  said:  "Now, 
who  told  you  that?" 

"I  do  not,  of  course,  know  the  facts,"  said  Violet; 
"but  I  should  like  to." 

"You  may  as  well  know,"  said  Van  Hupfeldt, 
turning  away  from  her.     "Yes,  I  sent  it." 

Violet  flushed.  His  manner  did  not  carry  convic- 
tion even  to  a  mind  not  used  to  doubt  the  spoken  word. 
It  was  horrid  to  think  he  was  lying.  Yet  an  odd 
sheepishness  was  visible  in  his  face;  his  voice  was  not 
strong  and  brave. 

"Well,  I  am  still  in  a  maze,"  she  murmured.  "Since 
it  was  you  who  sent  it,  and  since  you  say  in  it  that 
my  sister's  honor  is  now  *a  pretty  certain  thing,'  and 
that  '  the  proofs  will  be  forthcoming, '  why  did  you  say 
a  moment  ago  that  it  is  'a  mere  dream'  to  look  for- 
ward to  their  forthcoming  ?  " 

Van  Hupfeldt  was  looking  out  of  the  window.  He 
did  not  answer  at  once;  only  after  a  minute  he  replied 
without  looking  round:  "It  was  I  who  sent  you  the 
note.  Yes,  it  was  I;  and  what  I  say  in  it  is  true  — 
somehow  —  true  in  some  way;  but  I  did  not  wish  you 
to  make  the  realization  of  those  hopes  a  condition  of 
your  giving  yourself  to  me.  Hence  I  said  that  your 
stipulation  was  'a  mere  dream.'  Now,  you  under- 
stand; now,  I  think,  all  is  clear  to  your  mind." 

Violet  sighed,  and  made  no  answer.     All  was  not 

78 


Violefs  Conditions 

so  very  clear  to  her  mind.  One  thing  only  was  clear, 
that  the  nobility  with  which  she  and  her  mother  had 
credited  Van  Hupfeldt  in  sending  the  note  anony- 
mously, so  that  he  might  not  claim  a  reward  from  her, 
was  not  a  deep  nobility;  for  he  had  promptly  volun- 
teered the  information  that  it  was  he  who  had  sent  it. 
She  felt  some  disgust.  A  woman  disillusioned  about 
a  man  rushes  to  the  opposite  pole.  Let  him  but  be 
detected  to  be  not  the  hero  which  she  had  thought 
him,  and  steep  is  his  fall.  Henceforth  he  is  not  only 
not  a  hero  but  less  than  nothing  in  her  eyes.  Violet 
paced  aimlessly  through  the  room,  then  went  to  the 
window  farthest  from  that  at  which  Van  Hupfeldt 
stood,  and  the  unspoken  words  on  her  lips  were:  "The 
miserable  man." 

At  last  Van  Hupfeldt  almost  rushed  at  her,  with  the 
cry:  "The  promise  on  that  sheet  of  paper  in  your 
hand  shall  be  fulfilled,  and  fulfilled  by  me,  I  vow,  I 
swear  it  to  you!  But  the  fulfilment  of  it  must  not  be 
made  a  condition  of  our  union.  The  union  must  come 
first,  and  then  the  fulfilment;  and  the  quicker  the  union 
the  sooner  the  fulfilment." 

"  No,  I  will  not  have  it  so." 

"You  must!" 

"  You  are  to  release  my  wrist,  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt ! " 

"  You  must ! " 

"  But  why  hold  me  ?  " 

"  Listen  —  your  sister  was  a  wedded  wife.  I  know 
it,  I  have  reason  to  know  it,  and  I  am  certain  that, 

79 


The  Late  Tenant 

if  you  marry  me,  within  six  months  after  the  marriage 
I  shall  be  in  a  position  to  hand  you  the  proofs  of  every- 
thing —  to  tell  you  truly  the  whole  history  from  begin- 
ning to  end  —  " 

"But  why  six  months  after?  Why  not  six  months 
before?" 

"  I  have  reasons  —  there  are  reasons.  What  I 
shall  have  to  tell  will  be  a  pain  to  you,  I  foresee,  a  pain; 
but  perhaps  not  a  pain  which  you  will  be  unable  to 
outlive.  Nevertheless,  from  what  I  already  know  of 
your  sister's  history,  I  see  that  it  must  be  told  you 
after,  not  before,  our  union.  It  is  a  terrible  history, 
I  —  gather,  a  harrowing  tale.  You  don't  even  guess, 
you  are  far  from  being  able  to  hear  it  now,  even  if  I 
could  tell  you  now.     Violet!  say  'Yes'  to  me!" 

"  What  ?   Without  understanding  anything  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Violet,  turn  to  me !    Violet,  say  *  Yes '  to  me ! " 

"  But  what  guaranty  —  " 

"My  pledged  word,  nothing  else;  that  is  enough. 
I  say  that  within  six  months,  not  more,  from  the  day 
of  our  marriage  you  shall  have  all  that  you  desire  to 
know,  even  the  child  shall  have  been  found,  for  already 
I  am  on  its  track.  But  unless  you  consent,  you  will 
never  know,  the  child  will  never  be  found;  for  I  shall 
be  dead,  and  the  knowledge  which  I  am  in  course  of 
gathering  shall  die  with  me.  If  you  will  not  give 
yourself,  then,  agree  to  that  bargain  you  spoke  of." 

"  One  gives,  in  a  bargain,  for  something  one  receives." 

"It  is  the  only  condition  on  which  we  can  come 

80 


Violet's  Conditions 

together.  I  could  not  bring  you  to-day  the  proofs 
that  you  long  for,  even  if  I  had  them.  It  must  be  six 
months  after  —  not  less  than  six  months  after  —  and 
for  then  I  promise,  calling  Heaven  to  witness.  Be- 
Heve  in  me!  Not  all  things  that  a  man  says  are  true; 
but  this  is  true.  Violet,  for  Gwen's  sake,  within  a 
week  —  the  sooner  it's  done,  the  sooner  you  hear  — 
witliin  not  more  than  two  weeks  —  " 

Violet,  sore  beset,  sliielded  her  eyes  with  a  listless 
hand.  Van  Hupfeldt  was  pleading  like  a  man  battUng 
for  his  last  earthly  good.  And  yet,  and  yet,  he  left 
her  cold. 

"I  don't  doubt  your  promise,"  she  said  with  a 
charming  shyness;  "but  it  is  a  great  matter,  you  give 
me  no  guaranties,  you  may  fail,  and  then  all  will 
have  been  in  vain." 

"  I  won't  fail.  I  shall  so  manage  that  there  will  be 
no  chance  of  failure.  And  to  prove  my  faith,  if  you 
say  'Yes,'  I  think  I  can  undertake  that  within  only 
two  months  after  the  marriage  the  child  shall  be  un- 
earthed, and  within  six  the  proofs  of  his  legitimacy 
shall  be  handed  you.  That's  fair  —  that  seems  fairer 
—  come,  now.  Only  the  marriage  must  be  prompt  in 
that  case,  without  a  fortnight's  delay.  I  can't  offer 
better  terms.     What  do  you  say  to  it.^" 

Violet,  without  answering,  suddenly  cast  herself 
upon  the  sofa-head,  burying  her  face  in  it.  A  bitter 
lamentation  came  from  her,  so  thin  and  low  that  Van 
Hupfeldt  could  scarce  hear  it.     He  stood  over  her, 

81 


The  Late  Tenant 

looking  at  her,  his  heart  in  his  mouth;  and  presently, 
bending  to  her,  he  whispered:  "Tell  me!" 

"God  knows!"  came  from  her  brokenly. 

He  put  his  lips  on  her  hair,  and  she  shivered.  "It 
is 'Yes,'  then,"  said  he;  "but  pity  me  still  more,  and 
say  that  it  shall  be  at  once." 

"No,"  she  sobbed,  "I  must  have  time  to  think. 
It  is  too  much,  after  all  — " 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Mordaunt  entered.  Violet, 
aroused  by  the  opening  door,  stood  up  with  a  bent 
head,  an  averted  face,  and  Van  Hupfeldt  said,  with  a 
sort  of  frenzied  laugh,  to  Mrs.  Mordaunt:  "See  how 
the  days  are  lengthening  out  already." 

Mrs.  Mordaunt  looked  at  Violet  with  a  query  in 
her  glance ;  and  Violet's  great  eyes  dwelt  on  her  mother 
without  answering  by  any  sign  that  question  of  lifted 
eyebrows.  The  girl  was  puzzled  and  overwrought. 
Was  it  so  that  men  won  women,  that  some  man  had 
won  her  sister  ?     Surely  this  was  a  strange  wooing ! 


82 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AT  DEAD  OF  NIGHT 

David  Harcourt,  meantime,  had  long  since  reached 
home  after  his  interview  with  Miss  L'Estrange,  where- 
upon Mrs.  Grover  had  presented  him  with  her  first 
specimen  of  housewifery  in  the  shape  of  a  lunch. 
But,  as  if  to  prove  that  the  fates  were  against  litera- 
ture that  day,  she  also  presented  him  with  a  letter 
from  the  agent  Dibbin,  saying:  "Herein  please  find 
address  of  Sarah  Gissing,  servant  of  the  late  Miss 
Gwendoline  Barnes,  as  promised." 

David's  first  impulse  was  to  go  straightway  after 
the  meal  to  interview  this  Sarah  Gissing.  Then  he 
set  his  lips,  saying  to  himself:  "The  day's  work,"  and, 
after  lighting  his  pipe,  he  walked  up  to  his  literary 
tools  with  the  grimness  of  a  man  about  to  throttle  an 
enemy.  Whereupon  he  sat  down  and  wrote  some- 
thing. When  he  came  back  to  earth  with  a  weary 
but  taut  brain,  Mrs.  Grover  was  gone  for  the  day. 
It  was  near  seven  in  the  evening,  and  the  prairie-wolf 
within  was  growling  "Dinner-time." 

His  mental  faculties  being  now  on  a  tension,  he 
thought  to  himself  that  there  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  be  prompt,   and  call  upon  Miss   Gissing 

83 


The  Late  Tenant 

that  evening.  Though,  after  dinner,  a  mortal  lethargy 
and  reaction  seized  upon  him  with  the  whisper,  "To- 
morrow is  better  than  to-day,"  he  proved  true  to  his 
high-strung  self,  and  went  by  bus  to  Baker-St.,  where 
he  took  train  for  the  station  nearest  the  village  of 
Chalfont. 

It  was  a  sharp  walk  from  station  to  village.  There 
was  no  cab;  and  when  he  arrived  at  the  Peacock  Inn, 
where  Sarah  Gissing  was  now  a  barmaid,  he  learned 
that  she  was  away  on  leave  at  a  neighboring  village. 
He  strolled  about  the  silent  street  until  Sarah  came 
home  at  ten  o'clock,  a  thin  girl,  with  projecting  top 
teeth,  and  a  chronic  stare  of  wonderment  in  her  eyes. 

"You  are  not  to  be  alarmed,"  David  said  to  her. 
"I  only  came  to  ask  you  a  few  questions  about  your 
late  mistress,  Miss  Gwendoline  Barnes,  in  whom  I 
have  an  interest.  No  one  will  be  harmed,  as  far  as  I 
am  aware,  by  your  telling  me  all  that  you  know, 
while  you  and  I  may  profit  by  it." 

They  spoke  in  the  tiny  inn  drawing-room,  and 
Sarah  in  her  coat,  with  her  hat  on,  sitting  on  the 
piano-stool,  stared  and  answered  shortly  at  first.  Little 
by  little  she  was  induced  to  utter  herself. 

"He  was  a  tall  man,"  she  said,  "rather  thin,  dark 
and  pale  —  " 

"Straight  nose?"  asked  David. 

"Yes,  sir,  straight  nose;  a  handsome  man." 
Black  mustache,  nicely  turned  out  ?  " 
'Yes,  sir;  he  had  a  mustache." 

84 


(< 


( i^ 


At  Dead  of  Night 

"Well,  but  all  that  says  nothing.  Many  people 
answer  such  a  description.  Was  there  no  photograph 
of  him  in  the  flat  ?     Did  you  never  see  a  photograph  ?  " 

"Yes,  there  was  a  photograph  on  the  mantelpiece 
of  Miss  Barnes's  bed-room.  In  a  silver  frame  it  was; 
but  the  day  after  her  death  the  silver  frame  was  still 
there,  and  the  photograph  was  gone,  for  I  noticed  it 
myself." 

"Do  you  realize  that  you  are  telling  me  a  mighty 
odd  thing,"  said  David  with  sudden  interest.  "How 
soon  after  the  door  was  forced  did  you  go  into  the  flat." 

"  Wasn't  I  there  when  the  door  was  forced  ?  Didn't 
I  go  in  at  once  ?  " 

"And  how  soon  afterward  did  you  notice  that  the 
photograph  was  gone  from  the  silver  frame  ? " 

"How  soon  ?     Soon  afterward."  . 

"It  was  not  one  of  the  men  who  forced  the  door 
who  removed  the  photograph  from  the  frame  ? " 

"I  don't  think  that,  sir.  I  would  have  noticed  it 
if  that  had  been  the  case." 

"When  you  went  in  you  found  the  body  of  your 
mistress  lying  dead;  the  front  door  had  been  bolted 
inside;  so  there  was  no  way  for  any  one  to  have  come 
out  of  the  flat.  And  when  you  left  your  mistress  the 
previous  night  the  photograph  was  in  its  frame,  but 
gone  when  the  door  was  forced  the  next  day.  Those 
are  the  facts,  aren't  they  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  that  seems  to  say  that  it  was  Miss  Barnes 

85 


The  Late  Tenant 

herself  who  removed  the  photograph,  doesn't  it  ?  And 
it  follows  that  the  photograph  is  still  in  the  flat  ? " 

"P'raps  she  did  it  to  screen  him,"  suggested  Sarah, 
indulging  in  the  vanity  of  thought.  "I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  that  was  it.  No  doubt  she  tore  up  the 
photograph,  or  burnt  it." 

"But  you  didn't  see  any  shreds  or  ashes  of  it  any- 
where ?  " 

"  Not  of  a  photograph,  although  I  did  sweep  out  the 
place  the  same  day,  too.  Still,  that's  not  to  say  she 
didn't  tear  it  up  because  there  was  no  shreds  of  it, 
for  there  are  ways  and  means." 

"Were  there  shreds  of  any  kind  about?" 

"Yes;  she  must  have  torn  up  a  good  few  letters 
overnight  before  doing  what  she  did.  There  was  no 
end  of  litter,  for  that  matter." 

"  But  suppose  she  did  not  burn  or  tear  up  the  photo- 
graph," said  David,  "where  would  she  have  hidden  it? 
Can  you  suggest  a  place  ?  Did  you  ever  know  her 
to  hide  anything  ?  For,  if  she  hid  one  thing,  she  may 
have  hidden  others,  mayn't  she  ?  " 

"I  believe  there's  one  letter  she  must  have  hidden," 
answered  Sarah,  "  unless  she  destroyed  it  —  a  letter 
that  came  from  Paris  four  days  before  she  made  away 
with  herself.  I  saw  the  postmark  and  the  hand- 
writing, so  I  know.  It  was  from  him,  for  he  was  in 
Paris  at  the  time,  and  it  was  that  letter  that  was  the 
death  of  her,  I  feel  certain.  It  came  about  eleven 
o'clock,  soon  after  breakfast.     She  was  at  the  piano 

86 


At  Dead  of  Night 

in  her  dressing-gown,  singing,  not  ordinary  singing, 
but  a  kind  of  moaning  of  different  notes,  practising 
her  voice  like  —  it  used  to  give  me  the  blues  to  hear 
her  every  morning,  it  was  so  doleful  like,  moan,  moan, 
moan!  So  I  says,  *A  letter  for  you,  mum,'  and  she 
first  stared  at  it  in  my  hand,  then  she  jumped  up 
sudden  like,  and  kind  of  snatched  it  out  of  my  hand. 
But  she  didn't  read  it.  She  went  with  it  to  the  front 
window,  looking  out,  holding  the  letter  behind  her 
back  with  her  two  hands,  trembling  from  head  to 
foot.  So,  not  having  any  excuse  to  stay,  I  went  out, 
but  didn't  quite  close  the  door.  I  loitered  for  a  little 
while;  but,  not  hearing  anything,  I  went  about  my 
work,  till  half  an  hour  later  something  seemed  to  say 
to  me:  'Better  have  a  look,'  and  when  I  peeped  into 
the  drawing-room,  there  she  was  sitting  on  the  floor 
with  her  face  on  the  sofa,  and  the  letter  in  her  hand. 
I  thought  she  had  the  neuralgia;  she  looked  that 
much  in  pain,  you  never  saw.  I  spoke  to  her,  but  she 
looked  at  me,  sick  like,  and  didn't  say  nothing.  I 
don't  believe  she  could  have  stood  up,  if  she  had  tried, 
and  it  did  go  to  my  heart  to  see  her  struck  down  and 
helpless  like  that." 

David's  close  interest  in  her  story  pleased  the  girl. 
Such  a  nice  young  man  he  was^  Perhaps  he  might 
call  again  some  evening. 

"My  missus  wasn't  quite  right  the  rest  of  her  time, 
I  don't  think,"  she  went  on.  "She  wandered  about 
the  flat,  restless  as  a  strange  kitten,  singing  bits  of 

87 


The  Late  Tenant 

songs,  and  she  had  a  sweet  soprano  voice,  I'm  sure, 
that  pierced  you  through  when  she  screamed  out  the 
high  notes.  She  didn't  go  to  the  theater  any  more, 
after  the  letter.  The  next  day  she  comes  to  me  in  the 
kitchen,  singing  and  chuckhng  to  herself,  and  she 
says  to  me:  *What  are  you  doing  here?'  says  she. 
*How  do  you  mean,  mum?'  says  I.  'Listen,  Sarah,' 
says  she,  putting  her  face  quite  close  to  mine,  *  you 
shouldn't  be  here,  this  is  not  a  place  for  a  decent  girl 
like  you.  You  are  to  understand  that  I  am  not  mar- 
ried. I  told  you  that  I  was;  but  it  was  a  lie.  I  have 
a  child;  but  I  am  not  married,'  and  she  ran  off,  laugh- 
ing again  to  herself,  as  wild  as  a  bird." 

"No,  not  that!"  interrupted  David,  for  the  out- 
spoken revelation  hurt  him.  "It  was  not  so  much 
that  which  I  wished  to  hear.  Let  us  talk  of  the  letter 
and  the  man.  You  never  saw  the  letter  again  ?  You 
can't  think  what  your  mistress  may  have  done  with  it  ?  " 

"No,  I  never  saw  it  again,"  said  Sarah,  "nor  I 
can't  think  where  she  may  have  put  it,  unless  she  tore 
it  up.  There's  only  one  queer  thing  which  I  can  call 
to  mind,  and  that  is,  that  during  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  before  she  died,  I  went  out  to  buy  some  soda,  and 
when  I  came  back  I  found  her  standing  on  a  chair, 
hanging  up  one  of  the  pictures  in  the  long  corridor, 
I  wondered  at  the  time  whether  it  had  fallen  down  or 
what,  though  I  didn't  say  anything.  But  now  I  come 
to  think  of  it  — " 

David  thought  to  himself:  "She  was  then  hiding 

88 


At  Dead  of  Night 

the  marriage  and  birth  certificates  which  Miss 
L'Estrange  afterward  saw  when  the  picture  fell.  She 
was  reluctant  to  destroy  them,  and  yet  wished  to  screen 
the  man,  having  in  her  mind  the  purpose  to  take 
her  own  life.  The  man's  photograph  and  the  fatal 
letter  from  him  were  not  hidden  in  the  picture, 
but  somewhere  else,  perhaps.  I  must  search  every 
cranny." 

"Of  course,"  he  said  aloud,  "you  could  easily 
identify  her  husband  if  he  was  shown  to  you  again  ?  '* 

"Oh,  rather,  sir,"  Sarah  answered,  "I've  seen  him 
dozens  of  times.  He  used  to  come  to  the  flat  anyway 
twice  a  week,  though  sometimes  he  would  be  away 
for  a  goodish  stretch,  mostly  in  Paris." 

"  They  were  an  affectionate  pair  —  fond  of  each 
other  ? " 

"They  were  that,  indeed,"  said  Sarah  with  a  smile, 
as  one  who  understood  that  sort  of  thing.  "He,  I'm 
sure,  worshiped  the  ground  she  walked  on,  and  she 
was  just  as  bad.  It  came  as  a  surprise  to  me  that 
anything  was  wrong,  though  latterly  she  did  use 
to  have  red  eyes  sometimes  after  he  had  been  with 
her." 

What  name  did  she  call  him  by.^"  asked  David. 
His  name  was  Johann  Strauss,  wasn't  it.^" 

"He  was  a  Mr.  Strauss,  sir,  yes,  but  not  the  other 
name  you  say.     At  least,  she  always  called  him  Harry." 

"Henry  is  sometimes  the  English  for  Johann,  you 
see,"    muttered    David,    with   a    random   guess    that 

89 


it 


The  Late  Tenant 

Sarah  was  none  the  wiser.  "  Henry,  too,  was  the  name 
of  the  child,  wasn't  it  ?  How  about  the  child  ?  Don't 
you  know  where  it  is  ?  " 

"  I  only  know  that  she  used  to  go  every  Tuesday  and 
Thursday  by  the  seventeen  minutes  past  two  train 
from  Baker-St.,  and  be  back  by  six  o'clock,  so  it 
couldn't  have  been  very  far.  'Pon  my  word,  some- 
times she'd  go  half  crazy  over  that  cliild.  There  was 
a  little  box  of  clothes  that  she's  many  a  time  made  me 
waste  half  a  day  over,  showing  me  the  things,  as  if 
I'd  never  seen  them  afore,  everything  that  was  possible 
embroidered  with  violets,  and  she'd  always  be  mak- 

ing-" 

"  Fond  of  violets,  was  she  ^ "  broke  in  David,  ready 
enough  to  catch  at  the  phrase. 

"  Oh,  it  was  all  violets  with  her,  — violets  in  her  hair, 
at  her  neck,  at  her  waist,  and  all  about  the  place. 
She  had  a  sister  called  Violet,  and  I  came  to  know 
the  sister  as  well  as  I  knew  herself  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  she  was  always  telling  me  about  her.  For 
often  she  had  nobody  to  talk  to,  and  then  she'd  make 
me  sit  down  to  hear  about  her  mother  and  this  Miss 
Vi  and  the  child,  and  what  she  meant  to  do  when  her 
marriage  could  be  made  public,  and  that.  She  was 
a  good,  affectionate  lady,  was  Miss  Gwen,  sir.  You 
couldn't  help  loving  her,  and  it  was  a  mortal  hard 
thing  what  happened." 

It  was  just  then  that  the  mistress  of  the  tavern 
looked  in  with  an  unsympathetic  face;  so  David  rose 

90 


At  Dead  of  Night 

and  slipped  a  gold  coin  into  the  hand  of  the  staring 
Sarah.  The  talk  had  already  lasted  a  long  while, 
and  the  inn-door  had  to  be  opened  to  let  him  out. 

He  walked  the  two  miles  back  to  the  station,  and 
there  learned  that  the  last  up-train  for  the  night  had 
just  left.  Even  on  the  suburban  lines  there  is  a  limit 
to  late  hours. 

This  carelessness  on  his  own  part  caused  him  to 
growl.  It  was  now  a  question  either  of  knocking  up 
some  tavern,  or  of  tramping  to  London  —  about 
twenty-one  miles.  However,  twenty-one  miles  made 
no  continent  to  him,  and,  after  posting  liimself  by 
questions  as  to  the  route,  he  set  out. 

Throwing  his  overcoat  over  his  left  arm,  he  put  his 
elbows  to  his  ribs,  lifted  his  face  skyward,  and  went 
away  at  a  long,  slow,  swinging  trot.  One  mile 
winded  him.  He  stopped  and  walked  for  five  minutes, 
then  away  he  went  again  at  a  steady  jog-trot;  and 
now,  with  this  second  wind,  he  could  have  run  in  one 
heat  to  Bow  Bells  without  any  feeling  but  one  of  joy 
and  power.  He  had  seen  Indians  run  all  day  long 
with  pauses.  He  had  learned  the  art  from  them,  and 
London  had  scarce  had  time  as  yet  to  enervate  him. 
Up  hill  and  down  dale  he  went  steadily  away,  like  a 
machine.  It  was  dark  at  first,  dismal  in  some  places, 
the  sky  black,  crowded  with  stars,  like  diamond-seed 
far  sown;  but  suddenly,  wliile  he  was  trotting  through 
the  main  street  of  Uxbridge,  all  this  was  changed,  the 
whole  look  and  mood  of  things  undenvent  transfor- 

91 


The  Late  Tenant 

mation,  as  the  full  moon  floated  like  a  balloon  of  light 
into  the  sky.  It  was  then  about  one-thirty  in  the 
morning.  Thenceforth  his  way  was  almost  as  clearly 
lit  as  by  day. 

Through  dead  villages  he  passed,  through  dead 
Ealing  to  Shepherd's  Bush;  there  were  cats,  and  there 
were  policemen,  and  one  running  man,  little  else. 
Here  or  there  a  constable  was  half-drawn  into  giving 
chase,  but  wisely  forbore  —  he  never  would  have 
caught  David  Harcourt.  But  at  Shepherd's  Bush 
David  came  to  the  foot  of  a  long  hill,  which  he  shirked, 
and  drew  up.  From  that  point  he  walked  to  Notting 
Hill,  past  Kensington  Gardens,  toward  Oxford  Circus. 
It  was  near  three  a.m. 

Walking  on  the  south  side  of  Oxford-St.  eastward, 
he  stopped  to  look  at  some  books  behind  a  grille. 
The  moonshine  was  so  luminous,  the  sky  so  clear, 
that  he  could  see  well  enough  to  read  their  titles. 
This  was  the  only  quiet  hour  of  London.  There  was 
not  a  sound,  save  the  echo  of  a  policeman's  tread 
some  way  off  down  Regent-St.  Not  even  a  night  cab 
rattled  in  the  distance.  And  then,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street,  his  quick  ears  caught  the  passing  of 
swift-gliding  feet  —  a  woman's. 

When  David  glanced  round,  already  she  was  gone 
well  past  him,  making  westward,  most  silently,  with  a 
steady  haste.  She  gave  him  the  impression  of  having 
been  overtaken  by,  of  being  shy  at,  the  moonUght. 
His  heart  leaped  in  a  spasm  of  recognition,  almost  of 

92 


At  Dead  of  Night 

fear.  And  he  followed,  he  could  not  help  it;  as  water 
flows  downward,  as  the  needle  follows  the  magnet, 
he  followed,  with  the  stealthy  pace  of  the  stalker,  as 
silently  as  if  he  was  tracking  a  deer,  and  as  keenly. 
His  breathing,  meantime,  was  as  if  suspended,  his 
heart  seemed  to  stand  still.  That  form  and  motion, 
his  instincts  would  have  recognized  them  in  midnight 
glimmer  of  dull  lamps,  and  now  they  were  before  him 
in  light.  Still  he  could  not  believe  his  wits.  He 
doubted  whether  he  was  not  moonstruck,  chasing  a 
phantom  made  of  the  clair-obscure  stuff  of  those 
dead  hours  of  the  night  when  dreams  are  rife  in  the 
world,  and  ghosts  leer  through  the  haunted  chambers 
of  the  brain.  That  she  should  be  walking  the  streets 
of  London  at  three  in  the  morning,  alone,  hastening 
secretly  homeward  like  some  poor  outcast  forecon- 
scious  of  the  light  of  dawn!  —  this  savored  somewhat 
of  limbo  and  lunacy.  For  what  good  reason  could 
she  be  thus  abroad  ?  A  swarm  of  doubts,  half-doubts, 
queer  bodings,  jostled  in  David's  heart.  She  might, 
indeed,  have  come  out  to  summon  a  doctor,  to  obtain 
a  drug  in  an  emergency.  But  something  in  her  air 
and  pace,  something  clandestine,  desperate,  illicit, 
seemed  to  belie  this  hope.  She  turned  north  when  she 
had  gone  so  far  west  as  Orchard-St.,  little  thinking, 
apparently,  that  she  was  being  shadowed,  and  thence 
sped  on  west  and  north  alternately  through  smaller 
streets,  a  region  in  which  the  desolation  of  the  sleeping 
city  seemed  even  more  confirmed.     And  David  fol- 

93 


The  Late  Tenant 

lowed,  with  this  thought  in  his  mind,  that,  though  he 
had  not  seen  her  face,  he  had  a  certain  means  of  deter- 
mining her  identity  —  for,  if  the  flying  figure  before 
him  went  to  60A,  Porchester  Gardens,  the  address 
wliich  he  had  of  Violet  Mordaunt,  then  this  must  be 
Violet. 

Not  that  in  the  later  part  of  his  chase  he  had  the 
slightest  doubt.  The  long  black  cloak,  like  those  that 
nurses  wear,  inflated  behind  her,  the  kind  of  toque 
above  it,  the  carriage  of  her  head,  the  slope  of  her 
shoulders,  all  these  were  hers:  and  she  sped  direct, 
notwithstanding  turns  and  twists,  to  Porchester  Gar- 
dens. David,  from  behind  the  corner  of  a  street, 
could  see  her  go  up  the  house-steps,  bend  over  some- 
thing in  her  hand,  open  the  door,  and  slip  on  what 
must  have  been  rubber  overshoes.  This  secrecy  re- 
volted him,  and  again  he  almost  doubted  that  it  was 
she.  But  when  she  had  gone  in,  he  hastened  from 
his  street-corner  to  the  door  to  read  the  house-number, 
and  it  was  60A. 

She  was  gone  now.  It  was  too  late  to  challenge 
and  upbraid  her.  He  already  regretted  that  he  had 
not  dared.  He  was  bitter  at  it.  Something  said 
within  him:  "Both  sisters!"  Some  envenomed  fang 
of  anger,  spite,  and  jealousy  plagued  him,  a  feeling 
that  he  was  wholly  out  of  it,  and  had  no  part  nor  lot 
in  her  life  and  acts;  and  then,  also,  like  oil  on  the 
waters,  came  pity.  He  must  home  to  his  haunted 
flat,  where  the  scent  of  the  violets  which  he  had  bought 

94 


At  Dead  of  Night 

greeted  him  on  his  entrance.  It  was  near  four  o'clock. 
After  looking  gloomily  for  some  time  at  the  head  in 
chalks,  he  read  three  letters  which  he  had  found  in 
the  letter-box.  One  of  them  was  from  Miss  L'Estrange, 
and  in  it  she  said: 

"I  have  asked  my  girl,  Jenny,  about  the  marriage 
and  birth  certificates  which  fell  out  of  the  picture, 
and  there's  something  funny  about  her."  (A  woman 
never  means  humor  when  she  uses  that  word  funny.) 
"She  wants  to  make  out  that  she  knows  nothing 
about  what  became  of  them,  but  I  believe  she  does. 
Perhaps  she  has  found  out  Strauss  and  sold  them  to 
him,  or  perhaps  she  only  means  to  do  so,  and  you  may 
get  them  from  her  if  you  be  quick  and  bid  high.  Any- 
way, I  have  done  my  best  for  you,  and  now  it  is  in 
your  own  hands.  You  can  come  here  whenever  you 
like." 

But  David  was  now  suddenly  not  so  devoted  to  the 
affairs  of  Violet  and  Gwendoline  Mordaunt  as  he  had 
been.  What  he  had  seen  within  the  past  hour  made 
him  bitter.  He  went  foraging  in  the  kitchen  for 
something  to  eat,  then  threw  himself  into  bed  in  a 
vexed  mood,  as  some  gray  of  morning  mingled  with 
the  night. 


95 


CHAPTER  IX 

COMING  NEAR 

As  for  Henry  Van  Hupfeldt,  he,  too,  at  that  morn- 
ing hour  lay  awake  in  his  bed.  If  ever  man  knew 
panic,  it  was  he  all  that  night.  He  had  gone  home 
from  his  interview  with  Violet,  cringing  in  his  carriage 
even  from  the  glance  of  the  passers  in  the  streets, 
stricken  to  the  heart  by  that  unsigned  note  of  David's 
to  Violet:  "A  pretty  certain  thing  that  your  sister  was 
a  duly  wedded  wife"  .  .  .  "the  proofs  of  it  will  be 
forthcoming."     Some  one  knew! 

But  who  ?  And  how  ?  Van  Hupfeldt  locked  him- 
self away  from  his  valet  —  he  lived  in  chambers  near 
Hanover  Square  —  and  for  hours  sat  without  a  move- 
ment, staring  the  stare  of  the  hopeless  and  the  lost. 
The  fact  that  he  had  as  good  as  won  from  Violet 
the  pledging  of  herself  to  him  —  that  fact  which  at 
another  time  would  have  filled  him  with  elation,  was 
now  almost  forgotten  in  the  darkness  of  his  calamity, 
as  a  star  is  swallowed  up  by  clouds.  The  thing  was 
known!  That  known  which  had  been  between  the 
chamber  of  his  heart  and  God  alone!  A  bird  of  the 
air  had  whispered  it,  another  soul  shared  in  its  horror. 
The  faintest  hiss  of  a  wish  to  commit  murder  came 

96 


Coming  Near 

from  between  his  teeth.  He  had  meant  well,  and 
ill  had  come;  but  because  he  had  meant  not  badly 
and  had  struggled  hard  with  fate,  let  no  man  dare  to 
meddle!  He  could  be  flint  against  the  steel  of  a  man. 
His  eyes,  long  bereft  of  sleep,  closed  of  themselves 
at  last,  and  he  threw  himself  upon  his  bed.  But  the 
pang  which  pierces  the  sleep  of  the  condemned  crimi- 
nal soon  woke  him.  He  opened  his  eyes  with  a  clearer 
mind,  and  set  to  tliinking.  The  unsigned  note  to 
Violet  was  in  a  man's  hand.  Some  nights  before  in 
the  cemetery  he  had  found  a  man  near  the  grave  with 
her,  and  the  man  had  seemed  to  be  talking  with  her, 
a  young,  sunburned  man.  Who  he  was  he  had  no 
idea;  he  had  no  reason  to  think  this  was  the  man 
who  had  sent  the  note.  There  was  left  only  Miss 
L'Estrange.  She  might  have  sent  it,  getting  a  man 
to  write  for  her  —  suspicion  of  itself  fixed  upon  her. 
Always  he  had  harbored  this  fear,  that  some  paper, 
something  to  serve  as  a  clue,  had  been  left  in  the  flat, 
which  would  lie  hidden  for  a  time,  and  then  come 
forth  into  the  noonday  to  undo  him  utterly.  Gwen- 
doline, he  knew,  had  wished  to  screen  him;  but  the 
chances  were  against  him.  He  had  never  dared  to 
go  into  the  flat  alone,  to  take  the  flat  in  his  own  name, 
and  search  it  inside  out.  The  place  was  haunted  by 
a  light  step,  and  a  sigh  was  in  the  air  which  no  other 
ear  could  hear,  but  which  his  ear  would  hear  without 
fail.  Within  those  walls  his  eyes  one  night  had  seen  a 
sight! 

97 


The  Late  Tenant 

He  had  not  dared  to  take  the  place;  but  he  had  put 
Miss  L'Estrange  into  it,  and  she  had  failed  him;  so, 
suspecting  at  last  that  she  did  not  search  according 
to  the  bargain,  he  had  threatened  to  stop  supplies,  in 
order  merely  to  spur  her  to  search,  for  his  heart  had 
always  foreboded  that  there  was  something  to  find. 

Gwen,  he  knew,  had  kept  a  diary.  Where  was 
that.?  His  photographs,  where  were  they.?  His  last 
letter  to  her  ?  The  certificates  ?  Had  they  all  been 
duly  destroyed  by  her.?  Had  she  forgotten  nothing.? 
But  when  he  had  attempted  to  spur  L'Estrange,  the 
woman  had  flown  into  a  fury,  and  he  had  allowed 
himself  to  lose  his  temper.  How  bitter  now  was  his 
remorse  at  this  folly!  He  ought  to  have  kept  some 
one  in  perpetuity  in  the  flat,  till  all  fear  of  anything 
lying  hidden  in  it  was  past.  He  suspected  now  that 
L'Estrange  might  have  found  some  document,  and 
had  kept  it  from  him  through  his  not  being  well  in 
her  favor  during  the  last  weeks  of  her  residence.  He 
groaned  aloud  at  this  childishness  of  his.  It  was  his 
business  to  have  kept  in  touch  with  her,  to  have  made 
her  rich.     But  it  was  not  too  late. 

So,  on  the  following  evening,  he  presented  himself 
at  the  stage-door  of  the  theater  where  Miss  Ermyn 
L'Estrange  was  then  displaying  her  charms,  in  his 
hand  an  ecrin  containing  a  riviere  of  diamonds.  He 
said  not  one  word  about  his  motive  for  coming  to  her 
after  so  long,  but  put  out  an  every-day  hand,  as  if  no 
dispute  had  been  between  them. 

98 


Coming  Near 

"Well,  this  is  a  surprise!"  said  she,  "What's  the 
game  now  ?  " 

"No  game,"  said  he,  assuming  the  necessary  jaunti- 
ness.  "Should  old  acquaintance  be  forgot?"  They 
drove  together  to  the  Cafe  Royal. 

"It  was  just  as  I  tell  you,"  she  explained  in  the  cab, 
driving  later  to  Chelsea.  "I  never  saw  one  morsel 
of  any  paper  until  that  last  day,  when  the  two  cer- 
tificates dropped  out  of  the  picture,  and  them  I 
wouldn't  give  you  because  of  the  tiff.  I'm  awfully 
sorry  now  that  I  didn't,"  she  glanced  down  at  the 
riviere  on  her  palm;  "but  there,  it's  done,  and  can't 
be  undone  —  nature  of  the  beast,  I  s'pose." 

"  And  you  really  think  Jenny  has  them  ?  Are  you 
sure,  now  ?  Are  you  sure  ? "  asked  Van  Hupfeldt, 
earnestly. 

"That's  my  honest  belief,"  she  answered.  "I 
think  I  remember  tossing  them  to  Jenny,  and  as  Jenny 
knew  that  I  had  gone  into  the  flat  specially  to  search 
for  papers  for  you,  she  must  have  said  to  herself: 
'These  papers  may  be  just  what  have  been  wanted, 
and  they'll  be  worth  their  weight  in  gold  to  me,  if  I 
can  find  Mr.  Strauss.'  No  doubt  she's  been  look- 
ing for  you  ever  since,  or  waiting  for  you  to  turn 
up.  When  I  said  to  her  yesterday:  'What  about 
those  two  papers  that  dropped  out  of  the  picture  at 
Eddystone  Mansions  ? '  she  turned  funny,  and  couldn't 
catch  her  breath.  '  Which  two  papers,  miss  ? '  she 
says.     'Oh,  you  go  on,'  I  said  to  her;  'you  know  very 

99 


The  Late  Tenant 

well.  Those  that  dropped  out  of  the  picture  that 
fell  down.' — *Yes,'  said  she,  *now  I  remember.  I 
wonder  what  could  have  become  of  them }  Didn't 
you  throw  them  into  the  fireplace,  Miss  L' Estrange  .'^ ' 
—  'No,  I  didn't,  Jenny,'  I  said  to  her,  'and  a  woman 
should  lie  to  a  man,  not  to  another  woman ;  for  it  takes 
a  liar  to  catch  a  liar.' — 'But  what  lie  am  I  telling. 
Miss  L' Estrange .'^ '  says  she.  'I  am  not  sure,'  I  said, 
'but  I  know  that  yoii  ought  to  tie  your  nose  with 
string  whenever  you're  telling  a  lie,  for  your  nostrils 
keep  opening  and  shutting,  same  as  they're  doing 
now.'  —  'I  didn't  know  that,  I'm  sure,'  says  she. 
'That's  queer,  too,  if  my  nostrils  are  opening  and 
shutting.'  —  'It's  only  the  truth,'  I  said  to  her;  'your 
mouth  is  accustomed  to  uttering  falsehood,  and  it 
doesn't  mind,  but  when  your  nostrils  smell  the  lie 
coming  out,  they  get  excited,  my  girl.'  —  'Fancy!' 
says  she.  'That's  funny!'  —  'So  where's  the  use  keep- 
ing it  up,  Jenny  ? '  I  said  to  her.  '  You  do  make  me 
wild,  for  I  know  that  you're  lying,  and  you  know  that 
I  know,  and  yet  you  keep  it  up,  as  if  I  was  a  man,  and 
didn't  know  you.  If  you've  got  the  papers,  say  so; 
you  are  perfectly  welcome  to  them,  for  I  don't  want  to 
take  them  from  you,'  I  said.  'Well,  you  seem  to 
know  more  than  I  do  myself,  miss,'  she  says.  *Oh, 
you  get  out!'  I  said  to  her,  and  I  pushed  her  by  the 
shoulders  out  of  the  room.  That's  all  that  passed 
between  us." 

"  For  what  reason  did  you  ask  her  about  these  papers 

100 


Coming  Near 

yesterday  in  particular?"  demanded  Van  Hupfeldt, 
thickly,  a  pain  gripping  at  his  heart. 

"  I'll  tell  you.  The  new  tenant  of  the  flat  came  to  me  —  " 

"  Ah !  the  flat  is  let  again  ?  " 

"  What,  didn't  you  know  ?  He's  only  just  moved 
in  —  a  young  man  named  David  Harcourt." 

"  And  he  came  to  you  ?     What  about  ?  " 

"  Asking  about  papers  —  " 

"  Papers  ?  What  interest  can  he  have  in  them  ? 
And  you  told  him  about  the  certificates  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Gott  in  Himmel  I " 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  You  told  him  about  the  certificates  ?  Then  it  was 
he  who  Avrote  the  note!" 

"  Which  note  ?     Don't  take  on  like  that  —  in  a  cab ! " 

"  You  told  him !  Then  it  was  he  —  it  was  he !  How 
does  he  look,  this  young  man  ?  What  kind  of  young 
man  ? "  Van  Hupfeldt  wanted  to  choke  the  woman 
as  she  sat  there  beside  him. 

"Come,  cheer  up,  pull  yourself  together;  it  will  be 
all  the  same  a  hundred  years  hence.  I'm  sure  I  didn't 
know  that  I  was  injuring  you  by  telling  him,  and  even 
if  I  had  known,  I  should  still  have  told  him  —  there's 
nothing  like  being  frank,  is  there  ^  You  and  I  weren't 
pals—" 

"  But  what  is  he  like,  this  young  man  ? " 

"Not  a  bad  sort,  something  like  a  Jameson  raider, 
a  merry,  upstanding  fellow  — " 

101 


The  Late  Tenant 

"It  was  he  who  was  at  the  grave  with  her!"  whis- 
pered Van  Hupfeldt  to  himself,  while  his  eyes  seemed 
to  see  a  ghost.  "And  you  told  him  all,  all!  It  was 
he,  no  other.  What  name  did  you  give  him  as  that 
of  the  husband  on  the  marriage-lines?  Did  he  ask 
that,  too  ?  Did  you  tell  him  ?  "  With  a  kind  of  crazy 
secrecy  he  asked  it  at  her  ear,  panting  for  the  answer. 

"I  didn't  remember  the  husband's  name,"  she 
answered.  "I  told  him  it  wasn't  Strauss,  but  van  or 
von  Something.  And  don't  lean  against  me  in  that 
way.     People  will  think  you  are  full." 

"  Van  ?  You  told  him  that  ?  And  what  did  he  say 
then.?" 

"  He  asked  if  it  wasn't  van  Something,  I  forget  what, 
Van  Hup —  something.  I  have  an  awful  bad  memory 
for  names,  and,  look  here,  don't  come  worrying  me 
with  your  troubles,  for  I've  got  my  own  to  look  after." 

Van  Hupfeldt's  finger-nails  were  pressed  into  the 
flesh  of  his  palms.  This  new  occupier  of  the  flat, 
then,  even  knew  his  name,  even  suspected  the  identity 
of  Strauss  with  Van  Hupfeldt.  How  could  he  know 
it,  except  from  Violet  ?  To  the  pains  of  panic  in  Van 
Hupfeldt  was  added  a  stab  of  jealousy.  That  Violet 
knew  this  young  man  he  no  longer  doubted,  nor 
doubted  that  the  meeting  at  the  grave  was  by  appoint- 
ment. Perhaps  Violet,  eager  to  find  suspected  papers 
of  her  sister's,  had  even  put  this  man  into  the  flat,  just 
as  he,  Van  Hupfeldt,  had  once  put  Miss  L'Estrange 
there.      At    all    events,  here    was  a  man  in  the  flat 

102 


Coming  Near 

having  some  interest  or  other  in  Violet  and  in  Gwen- 
doUne's  papers,  with  the  name  Van  Hupfeldt  on  his 
lips,  and  a  suspicion  that  Van  Hupfeldt  was  Strauss, 
the  evil  genius  of  Gwendoline! 

"But  there  must  be  no  meddling  in  my  life!"  Van 
Hupfeldt  whispered  to  himself,  with  an  evil  eye  that 
meant  no  good  to  David. 

When  the  cab  drew  up  before  Miss  L'Estrange's 
dwelling,  she  said:  "You  can't  come  up,  you  know;  it 
is  much  too  late.  And  there  isn't  any  need.  I  will 
let  Jenny  go  to  you  as  early  as  you  like  in  the  morning 
if  you  give  me  your  address,  or  you  can  come  your- 
self to-morrow  —  " 

"Ah,  don't  be  hard  on  me,"  he  pleade'd.  "I  mustn't 
lose  a  night.     Send  her  down  to  me,  if  I  can't  go  up." 

"Go  on,  the  poor  girl's  asleep,"  she  answered. 
"Where's  the  use  in  carrying  on  like  a  loony?  Can't 
you  take  it  coolly.^" 

In  the  end  he  had  to  go  without  seeing  Jenny,  having 
left  his  card  on  the  understanding  that  she  should  be 
with  him  not  later  than  ten  in  the  morning,  and  that 
Miss  L'Estrange  should  keep  his  address  an  inviolable 
secret. 

The  moment  he  was  gone  from  her,  Ermyn 
L'Estrange  darted  up  the  stairs,  as  if  to  catch  some- 
thing, and,  on  entering  her  flat,  tripped  into  her  bed- 
room, turned  on  the  light,  threw  off  her  cloak,  and 
put  on  the  necklace  before  her  mirror.  It  was  a  fine 
affair,  and  no  mistake,  all  lights  and  colors  playing 

103 


The  Late  Tenant 

bo-peep  in  the  stones.  She  made  a  curtsy  to  her 
image,  inspected  herself  on  every  side,  stepping  this 
way  and  that,  daintily,  like  a  peacock,  keenly  enjoy- 
ing the  gift,  till  the  novelty  of  possessing  it  was  gone 
stale.  But  at  no  time  did  she  feel  any  gratitude  to 
the  giver,  or  think  of  him  at  all  in  connection  with  it 

—  just  the  fact  of  having  it  occupied  her  mind,  it 
didn't  matter  whence. 

And  the  mere  knowledge  that  it  was  so  valuable 
proved  it  to  be  a  bribe,  pointed  to  a  weakness  in  the 
giver.  Some  gifts  to  women,  especially  splendid  ones, 
produce  not  only  no  gratitude,  but  a  certain  hardness 
of  heart,  contempt,  and  touch  of  enmity.  Perhaps 
there  is  a  feehng  of  "  I  ought  to  be  grateful,"  but  being 
too  happy  to  be  grateful,  they  are  bored  with  a  sense 
of  fault,  and  for  this  they  punish  the  giver  with  the 
opposite  of  gratitude. 

At  all  events,  by  the  time  Miss  L'Estrange  had 
taken  off  the  string  of  gems,  a  memory  had  grown  up 
within  her  of  David  Harcourt,  and  with  it  came  a 
mild  feeling  of  partizanship  and  liking  for  David  as 
against  Strauss.  It  was  a  wayward  machine,  that 
she-heart  under  the  bodice  of  Miss  Ermyn  L'Estrange 

—  wayward  without  motive,  subtle  without  thought, 
treacherous  for  treachery's  sake.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  before  waking  Jenny,  it  came  into  her  head  to 
"give  a  friendly  tip"  to  David  on  the  ground  that  he 
was  "not  a  bad  sort,"  and  she  actually  went  out  of 
her  way  to  send  him  a  post-card,  telling  him  that  she 

104 


Coming  Near 

had  expected  him  to  call  on  Jenny  that  day,  and  that, 
if  he  meant  business,  he  must  see  her  not  later  than 
half-past  nine  the  next  morning,  or  he  would  be  too 
late. 

What  a  web,  this,  which  was  being  spun  round  the 
young  adventurer  from  Wyoming! 


105 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  MARRIAGE-LINES 

David  had  not  gone  to  interview  Jenny  the  day 
before  in  obedience  to  Miss  L'Estrange's  first  note, 
because  of  the  sullen  humor  to  which  he  relapsed 
after  his  experiences  at  three  in  the  morning  in  the 
streets  of  London.  He  resented  the  visiting  of  the 
glimpses  of  the  moon  by  a  young  lady  who  donned 
rubber  overshoes  before  re-entering  her  house,  and 
he  said  to  himself:  "The  day's  work,  and  skip  the 
Violets." 

Then,  the  next  morning,  came  Miss  L'Estrange's 
second  letter  —  "  he  must  see  Jenny  not  later  than  half- 
past  nine"  or  he  would  be  "too  late."  Again  this 
failed  to  rouse  him.  With  those  lazy,  lithe  movements 
of  the  body  which  characterized  him,  he  strolled  for 
some  time  about  the  flat  after  his  early  breakfast,  un- 
certain what  to  do.  He  saw,  indeed,  that  some  one 
else  must  be  after  the  certificates  —  Strauss  —  Van 
Hupfeldt  —  if  Strauss  and  Van  Hupfeldt  were  one; 
but  still  he  halted  between  two  opinions,  thinking: 
"Where  do  I  come  in,  anyway.'^" 

Then  again  the  face  which  he  had  seen  at  the  grave 
rose  before  him  with  silent  pleadings,  a  face  touching 

106 


The  Marriage-Lines 

to  a  man's  heart,  with  dry  rose-leaf  lips  which  she 
had  a  way  of  wetting  quickly,  and  in  her  cheeks  a  die- 
away  touch  of  the  peach,  purplish  like  white  violets. 
And  how  did  he  know,  the  jealous  youth,  by  what 
hundred  reasons  her  nightly  wandering  might  be 
accounted  for?  Why  did  he  nourish  that  sort  of  re- 
sentment against  a  girl  who  was  a  perfect  stranger? 
Perhaps  there  was  really  some  jealousy  in  it!  At 
which  thought  he  laughed  aloud,  and  suddenly  darted 
into  action,  snatched  a  hat,  and  went  flying.  But 
then  it  was  already  past  nine. 

When  he  reached  Miss  L'Estrange's  flat,  for  some 
time  no  one  answered  his  ring,  and  then  the  door 
opened  but  a  little  way  to  let  out  a  voice  which  said: 
"What  is  it?  I  am  not  dressed.  She's  gone.  I  told 
you  you'd  be  too  late." 

"Is  she  gone?"  said  David,  blankly,  eager  enough 
now  to  see  her. 

"Look  here,  why  should  I  be  bothered  with  the 
lot  of  you  at  this  ungodly  hour  of  the  morning  ?  "  cried 
the  fickle  L'Estrange.  "/  can't  help  your  troubles! 
Can't  you  see  when  anybody  is  in  bed  ?  " 

"  But  why  did  you  let  her  go  before  I  came  ?  "  asked 
David. 

"  You  are  cool !     Am  I  your  mother  ?  " 

"I  wish  vou  were  for  this  once." 

"Nice  mother  and  son  we  little  two  would  make, 
wouldn't  we  ?  " 

"That's  not  the  point.     I'm  afraid  you  are  getting 

107 


The  Late  Tenant 

cold.  You  ought  to  have  contrived  to  keep  the  girl 
till  I  came,  though  it  is  my  own  fault.  But  can't  any- 
thing be  done  now  ?     Where  is  she  gone  to  ?  " 

"To  Strauss,  of  course.'* 

"  With  the  certificates .?  " 

"I  suppose  so.  I  know  nothing  about  it,  and  care 
less.  I  did  try  to  keep  her  back  a  bit  for  your  sake, 
but  she  was  pretty  keen  to  be  gone  to  him  when  once 
she  had  his  address,  the  underhanded  little  wretch!" 

"  But  stop  —  how  long  is  it  since  she  has  gone  ?  " 

"Not  three  minutes.  It's  just  possible  that  you 
might  catch  her  up,  if  you  look  alive." 

"How  can  that  he?  I  shouldn't  know  her.  I 
have  never  seen  her.  We  may  have  passed  each 
other  in  the  street." 

"Listen.  She  is  a  small,  slim  girl  with  nearly 
white  hair  and  little  Chinese  eyes.  She  has  on  a  blue 
serge  skirt  with  my  old  astrakhan  bolero  and  a  sailor 
hat.     Now  you  can't  miss  her,." 

"  But  which  way  ?    Where  does  Strauss  live  ?  " 

"I  promised  not  to  tell,  and  I'm  always  as  good  as 
my  word,"  cried  the  reliable  Miss  Ermyn  L'Estrange, 
"but  between  you  and  me,  it's  not  a  thousand  miles 
from  Piccadilly  Circus;  and  that  is  where  Jenny  will 
get  down  off  her  bus ;  so  if  you  take  a  cab  —  " 

"  Excellent.     Good-by !     See  you  again ! "  said  David. 

David  was  gone,  in  a  heat  of  action.  He  took  no 
cab,  however,  but  took  to  his  heels,  so  that  he  might 
be  able  to  spy  at  the  occupants  witliin  and  on  the  top 

108 


The  Marriage-Lines 

of  each  bus  on  the  Hne  of  route,  by  running  a  Httle 
faster  than  the  vehicles.  At  this  hour  London  was 
already  out  of  doors,  going  shopping,  going  to  oflBce 
and  works.  It  was  a  bright  morning,  like  the  begin- 
ning of  spring.  People  turned  their  heads  to  look  at 
the  man  who  ran  faster  than  the  horses,  and  pried  into 
the  buses.  Victoria,  Whitehall,  Charing  Cross,  he 
passed  —  still  he  could  see  no  one  quite  like  Jenny. 
He  began  to  lose  hope,  finding,  moreover,  that  running 
in  London  was  not  like  running  in  Wyoming,  or  even 
like  his  run  from  Bucks.  Here  the  air  seemed  to  lack 
body  and  wine.  It  did  not  repay  the  lungs'  effort, 
nor  give  back  all  that  was  expended,  so  that  in  going 
up  the  steep  of  Lower  Regent-St.  he  began  to  breathe 
short.  Nevertheless,  to  reward  him,  there,  not  far 
from  the  Circus,  he  saw  sitting  patient  in  a  bus-corner 
the  sailor  hat,  the  bolero,  the  Chinese  eyes,  and  reddish 
white  hair  of  Jenny. 

The  moment  she  stepped  out,  two  men  sprang  for- 
ward to  address  her  —  David  and  Van  Hupfeldt's 
valet.  Van  Hupfeldt  lived  near  the  lower  portion  of 
Hanover  Square,  the  way  to  which  being  rather  shut 
in  and  odd  to  one  who  does  not  know  it,  his  restless- 
ness had  become  unbearable  when  Jenny  was  a  little 
late,  so  he  had  described  her  to  his  valet,  a  whipper- 
snapper  named  Neil  —  for  Van  Hupfeldt  had  several 
times  seen  Jenny  with  Miss  L'Estrange  —  and  had 
sent  Neil  to  Piccadilly  Circus,  where  he  knew  that 
Jenny  would  ahght,  in  order  to  conduct  her  to  his. 

109 


The  Late  Tenant 

rooms.  However,  as  Neil  moved  quickly  forward, 
David  was  before  him,  and  the  valet  thought  to  him- 
self: "Hello,  this  seems  to  be  a  case  of  two's  company 
and  three's  none." 

David  was  saying  to  Jenny:  "You  are  Miss 
L'Estrange's  servant  ?  " 

"I  am,"  answered  Jenny. 

"She  sent  me  after  you.  I  must  speak  with  you 
urgently.     Come  with  me." 

Now,  in  Jenny's  head  were  visions  of  nothing  less 
than  wealth  —  wealth  which  she  was  eager  to  handle 
that  hour.  She  said,  therefore,  to  David:  "I  don't 
know  who  you  are.     I  can't  go  anywhere  —  '* 

They  stood  together  on  the  pavement,  with  Neil,  all 
unknown  to  David,  behind  them  listening. 

"  There's  no  saying  '  No,' "  insisted  David.  "  You're 
going  to  see  Mr.  Strauss,  aren't  you  ?  Well,  I  am  here 
instead  of  Mr.  Strauss  in  this  matter." 

But  this  ambiguous  remark  failed  of  its  effect,  for 
Neil,  whose  master  had  told  him  that  in  this  affair  he 
was  not  Van  Hupfeldt  but  Strauss,  intervened  with  the 
pert  words:  "Begging  your  pardon,  but  I  am  Strauss." 

However,  this  short  way  of  explaining  that  he  was 
there  on  behalf  of  Strauss  was  promptly  misunder- 
stood by  Jenny,  who  looked  with  disdain  at  the  valet, 
saying:  "You  are  not  Mr.  Strauss!" 

"Of  course  he  isn't,"  said  David,  quickly.  "How 
dare  you,  sir,  address  this  lady?  Come  right  away, 
will  you  ?     Come,  now.     Let's  jump  into  this  cab." 

110 


The  Marriage-Lines 

"Who  are  you ?  I  don't  even  know  you!"  cried  the 
perplexed  Jenny. 

"I  didn't  say  I  was  Mr.  Strauss  himself,"  began 
Neil. 

"Yes,  you  did  say  so,"  said  Jenny,  "and  it  isn't 
the  truth,  for  I  know  Mr.  Strauss  very  well,  and  neither 
of  you  isn't  going  to  get  over  me,  so  you  know ! " 

"Don't  you  see,"  suggested  David,  his  wits  all  at 
work,  "that  one  of  us  must  be  true,  and  as  you 
are  aware  that  he  is  false  —  '* 

"  What  is  all  this  about  ? "  demanded  Jenny.  "  I 
have  no  business  with  either  of  you.  Just  tell  me  the 
way  to  Hanover  Square,  please,  and  let  me  go  about 
my  business." 

"That's  just  why  I'm  here,  to  show  you  the  way," 
said  Neil.  "I  dunno  why  this  gentleman  takes  it 
upon  himself  —  " 

"Best  hold  your  tongue,  young  man,"  growled 
David.  "You  must  be  stupid  to  think  this  young 
girl  would  go  off  with  you,  a  man  she  never  saw  be- 
fore, especially  after  detecting  you  in  a  direct  un- 
truth —  " 

"  As  for  that,  she  don't  know  you  any  more  than  me, 
seemingly,"  retorted  Neil.      "Mr.  Strauss  sent  me  —  " 

"  How  is  she  to  know  that }  Miss  L'Estrange  sent 
me.  Didn't  I  know  your  name,  Jenny,  and  your 
mistress's  name  ?  " 

"Well,  that's  right  enough,"  agreed  Jenny  on  re- 
flection. 

Ill 


The  Late  Tenant 

"Then  trust  to  me." 

"  But  what  is  it  you  want,  sir  ?  " 

"It  is  about  the  papers,"  whispered  David,  con- 
fidentially. "It  is  all  to  your  good  to  come  with  me 
first  and  hear  what  I  have  to  say.     Miss  L'Estrange  —  " 

"Well,  all  right;  but  you  must  be  quick,"  said  Jenny, 
rushing  to  a  decision. 

David  hailed  a  cab,  and  he  and  Jenny  turned  their 
backs  upon  the  defeated  valet,  got  in,  and  drove  off. 
However,  Neil,  who  had  witnessed  Van  Hupfeldt's 
fever  of  eagerness  to  see  this  girl,  followed  in  another 
cab.  David  drove  to  the  Tube  Station  near  Oxford 
Circus  —  she  would  accompany  him  no  farther  — 
and,  while  he  talked  with  Jenny  in  a  corner  there, 
Neil,  lurking  among  the  crowd  of  shop-gazers  across 
the  street,  kept  watqh. 

"I  propose  to  you,"  David  said  to  Jenny,  "to  give 
the  certificates  to  me,  and  in  doing  so,  I  understand 
that  you  are  a  poor  girl  —  " 

"That's  just  it,"  answered  Jenny,  "and  I  must 
know  first  how  much  I  am  to  get  for  them  —  if  it's 
true  that  I  have  any  certificates." 

"  Right  enough,"  said  David,  "  but  the  main  motive 
which  I  hold  out  to  you  is  not  what  you  will  receive 
in  hard  cash,  but  that  you  will  do  an  immense  amount 
of  good,  if  you  give  the  papers  to  me.  They  don't 
belong  to  tliis  Mr.  Strauss,  but  they  do  belong  to  the 
mother  and  sister  of  a  poor  wronged  lady,  a  lady 
whose  character  they  will  clear." 

112 


The  Marriage-Lines 

"Ah,  no  doubt,"  agreed  Jenny,  with  the  knowing 
leer  of  a  born  Cockney;  "still,  a  girl  has  got  to  look 
after  herself,  you  see,  and  not  mind  other  people's 
troubles." 

"What!"  cried  David,  "would  you  rather  do  the 
wrong  thing  and  earn  twenty  pounds,  or  do  the  right 
thing  and  earn  five  pounds  ?  You  can't  be  in  earnest 
saying  that." 

"  It  isn't  a  question  of  five  pounds,  nor  yet  of  twenty," 
snapped  Jenny,  offended  at  the  mere  mention  of  such 
paltry  sums,  "it's  a  question  of  hundreds  and  of 
thousands."  Her  mouth  went  big  for  the  "  thousands.  " 
"Don't  think  that  I'm  going  to  part  with  the  papers 
under  high  figures,  if  so  be  I  have  any  papers." 

"  Under  what  ?  "  asked  David  —  "  under  hundreds, 
or  under  thousands  .^ " 

"  Under  thousands." 

"Now  hold  on  a  bit.  Are  you  aware  that  I  could 
have  the  papers  taken  from  you  this  minute,  papers 
that  don't  belong  to  you,  which  you  propose  to  sell  to 
some  one  other  than  the  rightful  owners  ?  " 

At  this  Jenny  changed  color.  There  was  a  police- 
man within  a  few  yards,  and  she  saw  her  great  and 
golden  dream  dissolving. 

"It  remains  to  be  seen  if  I  have  got  any  papers. 
That's  the  very  question,  you  see!"  she  said. 

"You  might  be  searched,  you  know,  just  to  clear 
the  point.  Yet  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  that,  for  I'm 
disposed  to  meet  you,  and  you  aren't  going  to  refuse 

113 


The  Late  Tenant 

any  reasonable  offer,  with  no  trouble  from  the  police 
to  follow.  So  I  offer  you  now  —  fifty  golden  sovereigns 
for  the  papers,  cash  down." 

"You  leave  me  alone,"  muttered  Jenny,  sheepishly, 
turning  her  shoulder  to  him. 

"Well,  I  thought  we  were  going  to  be  friends;  but 
I  see  that  I  must  act  harshly,"  David  said,  making  a 
threatening  movement  to  leave  her. 

"You  can  have  them  for  one  hundred  pounds," 
the  girl  murmured  in  a  frail  voice  with  downcast  eyes; 
to  which  David,  not  to  drive  a  hard  bargain  with  her, 
at  once  answered:  "Well,  you  shall  have  your  one 
hundred  pounds." 

The  next  moment,  however,  he  was  asking  himself: 
"  Who's  to  pay  ?  Can  I  afford  these  royal  extrava- 
gances in  other  people's  affairs  ?  Steady !  Not  too 
much  Violet!" 

He  walked  a  little  way  from  the  girl,  considering  it. 
He  could  not  afford  it.  There  was  no  earthly  reason 
why  he  should.  But  he  might  go  to  Violet,  to  Mrs. 
Mordaunt,  and  obtain  the  one  hundred  pounds,  or 
their  authorization  to  spend  that  sum  on  their  behalf. 
In  that  case,  however,  how  make  sure  of  Jenny  in  the 
meantime.^  It  would  hardly  do  to  leave  her  there  in 
the  station,  so  near  to  Strauss.  She  would  be  drawn 
to  him  as  by  a  magnet,  and  he  thought  that  if  he  took 
her  with  him  to  the  Mordaunts,  she  would  recover  her 
self-assurance  and  demand  from  the  women  more, 
perhaps,    than    they   could    afford.     In    the   end,    he 

114 


The  Marriage-Lines 

decided  to  take  her  to  his  flat,  and  leave  her  there  in 
Mrs.  Grover's  charge  till  he  returned  from  the  Mor- 
daunts. 

"That's  a  bargain,  then,"  he  said  to  her;  "one  hun- 
dred it  is.  I  take  it  that  you  actually  have  the  cer- 
tificates on  you  ?  " 

"I  may  have,'*  smirked  the  elusive  Jenny. 

"That's  all  right.  *Have'  and  *may  have'  are  the 
same  things  in  your  case.  So  now  I  shall  go  right 
away  to  procure  the  one  hundred  pounds,  and  mean- 
time you'll  come  with  me  to  your  old  flat  in  Eddystone 
Mansions  —  that's  where  I  live  now  —  No,  don't  be 
scared,  there's  some  one  there  besides  myself,  and  the 
ghost  doesn't  walk  in  the  daytime." 

They  hailed  another  cab,  and  again  Neil,  leaving 
his  lurking-place,  drove  after  them.  He  saw  David 
and  Jenny  go  into  the  mansions,  then  stood  uncertain 
whether  to  hurry  home  and  tell  the  position  of  affairs 
to  Van  Hupfeldt,  who,  he  knew,  must  by  this  time  be 
raving,  or  whether  to  wait  and  see  if  Jenny  and  David 
came  out  again. 

He  was  loitering  a  little  way  up  the  house-stairs, 
thinking  it  out,  when  he  heard  the  lift  coming  down, 
and  presently  he  saw  David  rush  out  —  alone.  Jenny, 
then,  was  still  in  the  building.     Neil  ran  to  the  lift- 


man. 


Gentleman  who  just  come  down,"  he  said,  "does 
he  live  here  ?  " 

"He  do,  in  No.  7,"  was  the  answer. 

115 


The  Late  Tenant 

"  Girl's  left  in  his  flat,  then,"  thought  Neil,  scratch- 
ing his  head,  "and  the  bloke  wot  owns  the  flat  don't 
know  I've  been  spying.  I'd  better  hurry  back  and 
let  the  master  know  how  things  are  looking." 

Whereat  the  valet,  who  was  clearer  in  action  than 
in  speech,  ran  out  and  took  cab  to  Hanover  Square, 
to  tell  Van  Hupfeldt  where  Jenny  was. 


116 


CHAPTER  XI 

SWORDS  DRAWN 

David,  meantime,  also  by  cab,  was  off  to  Por- 
chester  Gardens,  a  certain  hurry  and  fluster  now  in 
his  usually  self-possessed  bosom.  He  looked  at  his 
face  in  the  cab-mirror,  and  adjusted  his  tie.  A  young 
man  who  acts  in  that  way  betrays  a  symptom  of  heart- 
disease.     At  60A  he  sent  up  his  card. 

Violet  knew  from  Dibbin  the  name  of  David  Har- 
court,  but  when  she  read  it  she  seemed  startled,  and 
turned  a  little  pale.  "  Show  him  up,"  she  said,  in  a  flurry. 

"You  will  excuse  my  calling,"  explained  David, 
without  shaking  hands,  "though  we  have  met  before 
—  you  remember .? " 

She  inclined  her  head  a  little,  standing,  as  it  were, 
shrunk  from  him,  some  way  off. 

"But  my  visit  has  to  do  with  a  small  matter  which 
admits  of  no  delay." 

My  mother  —  "  she  began. 

Is  out,  I  know,"  said  he,  "but  as  the  affair  is 
urgent,  I  am  here.  You  know  that  I  am  the  tenant 
of  No.  7,  Eddystone  Mansions,  and  you  know  also, 
that,  without  seeking  it,  I  have  some  knowledge  of 
your  history.     I  wish  to  ask  whether,  without  troubling 

117 


t( 


a 


The  Late  Tenant 

your  mind  with  a  lot  of  details,  you  care  to  authorize  me 
to  spend  at  once,  in  your  interests,  a  sum  of  one  hun- 
dred pounds." 

She  scrutinized  him  with  a  certain  furtiveness, 
weighing  him. 

"  In  my  interests  .? "  said  she. 

"Yours  and  your  mother's." 

"  One  hundred  pounds  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  It  seems  a  strange  request." 

"It  isn't  a  request.  If  you  haven't  confidence  in 
me  to  the  extent  of  one  hundred  pounds,  I  am  not 
deeply  concerned." 

"  But  you  come  like  a  storm,  and  speak  like  one." 

"  On  a  purely  business  matter  of  your  own  —  re- 
member." 

"You  were  at  the  pains  to  come,"  she  said  with  a 
smile.     "You  cannot  both  care  and  not  care." 
-    "I  used  the  word  'concern,'  you  know." 

"  Is  it  a  gracious  way  to  approach  me  ?  " 

"  Is  it  charming  tQ  be  mistrusted  ? " 

"  Did  I  say  that  I  mistrusted  you  ? " 

"With  your  eyes." 

"  Well,  I  say  now  with  my  lips  that  I  do  not.  Which 
will  you  believe  ?  " 

"No  doubt  they  can  both  deceive." 

"  Oh,  now  you  are  verging  on  rudeness." 

"There  are  worse  things  than  rudeness,  when  one 
thinks  of  it." 

118 


Swords  Drawn 

"I  have  no  idea  to  what  you  refer." 

"That  may  be  because  I  know  more  about  you 
than  you  think." 

At  this  she  started  guiltily,  visibly,  and  at  that  start 
again  she  appeared  before  the  eye  of  David's  memory 
gliding  through  the  moonlight  at  three  in  the  morning, 
a  ghost  hastening  back  to  the  tomb.  Yet,  in  her 
presence,  the  resentment  which  rankled  in  him  softened 
to  pity.  A  look  of  appeal  came  into  her  dark  eyes, 
and  a  certain  essence  of  honesty  and  purity  in  her 
being  communicated  itself  to  his  instincts,  putting  it 
out  of  his  power  to  think  any  ill  of  her  for  the  moment. 

He  said  hurriedly:  "I  fear  I  have  begun  badly.  All 
this  is  neither  here  nor  there." 

She  sat  down,  slung  a  knee  between  her  clasped 
fingers  in  her  habitual  manner,  and  said:  "Please 
tell  me,  what  do  you  mean  ? "  Then  she  looked  up 
at  him  again  with  a  troubled  light  in  her  eyes. 

He  walked  quickly  nearer  to  her,  saying:  "Now, 
don't  let  that  get  into  your  head  as  a  serious  statement. 
It  was  a  mere  manner  of  speaking,  what  I  said,  and 
of  no  importance.  Moreover,  there's  this  question  of 
one  hundred  pounds,  and  time  is  a  vital  consideration." 

"Nevertheless,  you  were  definite  enough,  and  must 
have  had  some  meaning,"  she  went  on.  "Did  I  not 
hear  you  say  that  you  know  more  about  me  than  I 
think?  Well,  then,  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me 
what." 

"Now  I  have  put  my  foot  in  it,  I  suppose,"  said 

119 


The  Late  Tenant 

David,  "and  you  will  never  rest  till  I  find  something 
to  tell  you.  But  not  now,  if  you  will  bear  with  me. 
In  a  few  days  I  shall,  perhaps,  call  on  your  mother, 
or  see  you  again  at  a  place  which  you  no  doubt  visit 
pretty  often  at  about  the  same  hour,  and  to  which  I, 
too,  somehow  am  strangely  drawn.  The  question 
now  before  us  is  whether  I  am  to  spend  the  one  hun- 
dred pounds  for  you." 

"  As  to  that,  what  can  one  say  ?  You  tell  me  nothing 
of  your  reason,  my  mother  is  out,  and  I  am  afraid  that 
I  have  not  at  the  moment  one  hundred  pounds  of  my 
own.     I  am  about  to  be  married,  and  — " 

"Married.?" 

"I  am  myself  rather  surprised  at  it.  Yet  I  fail  to 
see  why  you  should  be  immoderately  surprised." 

"I.?  Surprised.?"  said  he  in  a  dazed  way,  still 
standing  with  one  foot  drawn  back  a  step.  "I  was 
merely  taken  aback,  because  — " 

"Well.?" 

"  Because  —  nothing.  I  was  simply  taken  aback, 
that's  all.  Or  rather  because  I  had  not  heard  of  it 
before." 

"It  was  only  fully  decided  upon  yesterday,"  said 
she,  bending  down  over  her  knee. 

"Oh,  only  yesterday.  And  the  happy  event  takes 
place  when  ?  for  I  am  at  least  interested." 

"Soon.  Within  two  or  three  weeks.  I  don't  quite 
know  when." 

"And  the  happy  man.?" 

120 


(( 


« 


Swords  Drawn 

"The  same  whom  you  saw  come  to  take  me  from 
Kensal  Green." 

Mr.  Van  Hupf eldt  ?  " 

Oh,  you  know  his  name.     Yes;  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt." 

David  chuckled  grimly. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  ? "  she  asked. 

"But  whatever  is  your  motive.'^"  he  cried  sharply. 

"You  are  strange  to  venture  to  inquire  into  my 
motive,"  she  said,  with  downcast  eyes.  Then  her 
lip  trembled,  and  she  added  in  a  low  voice:  "My 
motive  is  known  only  to  the  dead." 

"Ah,  don't  cry!"  he  almost  shouted  at  her,  with  a 
sudden  brand  of  red  anger  across  his  brow.  "  There's 
no  need  for  tears!     It  shan't  ever  happen,  this  thing!" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  she  asked,  glancing  tremu- 
lously at  him. 

"What  I  say.  This  marriage  can't  happen.  I'll 
see  to  that.  But  stop  —  perhaps  I  am  talking  too 
soon.  *Let  not  him  boast  that  putteth  his  armor  on 
as  he  that  taketh  it  off.'  Good-day,  Miss  Mordaunt. 
I  shall  not  trouble  you  any  more  about  the  one  hundred 
pounds.     I  will  spend  it  out  of  my  own  pocket  — " 

"Please  stay!"  she  cried  after  him.  "Everything 
that  you  say  bewilders  me!  How  am  I  to  believe  you 
honest  when  you  say  such  things  ? " 

"  What  things  ?  Honest  ?  You  may  believe  me 
honest  or  not,  just  as  you  will.  I  told  you  before  that 
I  am  not  greatly  concerned.  If  I  bewilder  you,  you 
anger  me.'* 

121 


The  Late  Tenant 

"I  am  sorry  for  that.     But  how  so?" 

"What,  is  it  nothing  for  a  man  to  hear  it  doubted 
whether  he  is  honest  or  not?  And,  apart  from  that, 
admit  that  your  sister  is  not  very  long  dead,  and  that 
you  have  been  easily  drawn  into  this  engagement  —  '* 

"  But  what  can  all  this  matter  to  you  ? "  she  asked, 
with  a  wrinkled  brow.  "Why  should  my  private 
conduct  anger  you  at  all  ?  I  have  not,  in  fact,  as  you 
think,  been  so  easily  won  into  this  engagement;  yet, 
if  I  had,  it  is  amazing  that  you  should  lecture  me. 
If  it  was  any  one  but  you,  I  should  be  cross." 

"  What,  am  I  in  special  favor,  then  ? " 

"You  have  an  honest  face." 

"Then  why  is  my  poor  honesty  constantly  doubted." 

"Because  you  say  extraordinary  things.  It  is  not, 
for  instance,  usual  for  people  to  pay  one  hundred 
pounds  for  the  benefit  of  a  casual  acquaintance  as 
you  just  volunteered  to  do.  Either  you  have  some 
trick  or  motive  in  view,  or  you  are  very  wonderfully 
disinterested." 

"  Which  do  you  think  ?  " 

"I  may  think  one  thing  now,  and  the  other  after 
you  are  gone." 

"Well,  it  is  useless  arguing.     I  should  be  here  all 
day,   if  I  let  myself.     We  were  not  made  to  agree, 
you  see.     Some  people  are  like  that.     I  shall  just  pay 
the  one  hundred  pounds  out  of  my  own  pocket  —  '* 
You  are  not  to  do  that,  please." 
Then,  will  you  ?  " 

122 


« 


(( . 


Swords  Drawn 


"I  think  not." 

"A7„,,    1 :j__ T__i.   ;_   .•„     j.?_„l» 

(( 


You  have  no  idea  what  is  in  question! 
Then,  give  me  some  idea." 

"And  lose  more  time.  However,  you  may  as  well 
hear.  It  is  this:  that  the  tenant  in  the  flat  before 
me,  one  Miss  L'Estrange,  found  concealed  in  a  pic- 
ture a  certificate  of  a  marriage  and  one  of  a  birth, 
and  I  wish  to  buy  them  for  you  from  Miss  L'Estrange's 
servant,  who  has  them." 

Violet  sprang  upright  with  an  adoring  face,  mur- 
muring: "Heaven  be  thanked!" 

"I  didn't  tell  you  before,"  said  David,  "because  I 
haven't  secured  the  papers  yet.  I  have  left  the  girl 
in  my  flat  —  " 

"  But  where  —  where  do  you  say  she  found  them  ?  " 
she  asked,  with  a  keener  interest  than  the  question 
quite  seemed  to  call  for. 

"It  was  in  a  picture-frame,  between  the  picture  and 
the  boards  at  the  back,"  he  answered.  "The  picture 
dropped,  and  the  certificates  fell  out." 

"Heaven  be  praised!"  she  breathed  again.  "Was 
there  nothing  else  that  fell  out  ? " 

"Nothing  else,  apparently." 

"That  was  enough.  Why  should  I  want  more? 
Oh,  get  them  for  me  quickly,  will  you  ? "  she  cried, 
all  animated  and  pink.  "With  these  in  my  hand 
everything  will  be  different.  Even  your  prophecy 
against  my  marriage,  which  you  seemed  not  to  desire, 
will  very  hkely  come  true." 

123 


The  Late  Tenant 

"So  now  I  have  your  authority  to  spend  the  one 
hundred  pounds  ? "  he  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"Of  course!    Ten  times  as  much!" 

"But  blessed  is  she  who  has  not  seen,  and  yet  has 
believed ! " 

"Forgive  me!  I  do  thank  and  trust  you!"  She 
put  out  her  hand.  He  took  it,  and  bent  some  time 
over  it. 

"Good-by,  Miss  Mordaunt." 

"  Not  for  long  —  an  hour  —  two  ?  " 

"I  am  glad  to  have  pleased  you.  I  shall  always 
remember  how  the  brunette  type  of  angels  look  when 
they  thank  Providence." 

"It  is  not  fair  to  flatter  when  one  is  highly  happy 
and  deeply  thankful,  for  then  one  hears  everything  as 
music.  Tell  me  of  it  some  other  time,  when  I  shall 
have  a  sharper  answer  ready.  But  stay  —  one  word. 
It  is  of  these  certificates  that  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt,  too, 
must  somehow  have  got  wind.  Does  the  girl  say  that 
any  one  else  knows  of  them  ?  " 

"A  man  named  Strauss  knows  of  them." 

At  that  name  her  eyelids  fell  as  if  her  modesty  had 
been  hurt.  "Does  not  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt  know  of 
them  ? "  she  asked,  with  face  averted. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  —  yet,"  he  answered,  turning  a 
little  from  her  lest  she  caught  the  grim  smile  on  his 
lips.     "  Why  do  you  think  that  he  may  know  ?  " 

"  Because  some  days  ago  he  wrote  me  a  note  —  it  is 
this.     It  can  refer  only  to  these  certificates,  I  suppose." 

124 


Swords  Drawn 

She  handed  to  David  his  own  note  —  "  It  is  now  a 
pretty  certain  thing  that  your  sister  was  a  duly  wedded 
wife "  —  and  David,  looking  at  it,  asked  with  some- 
thing of  a  flush :  "  Did  Mr.  Van  Hupf eldt  say  that  it 
was  he  who  sent  you  this  ?  I  see  that  it  has  no  signa- 
ture." 

"Yes,  it  was  he,"  said  Violet. 

"Ah!"  murmured  David,  and  said  no  more. 

"If  it  was  these  certificates  which  he  had  in  his 
mind  when  he  wrote  that  note,"  said  she,  "then  he, 
too,  as  well  as  you,  must  have  a  chance  of  securing 
them  from  the  girl.  So  you  had  better  be  careful 
that  he  is  not  beforehand  with  you." 

David  looked  squarely  at  her.  "So  long  as  you 
obtain  them,  what  does  it  matter  from  whom  they 
come  r 

"Of  course,"  she  replied,  with  her  eyes  on  the 
ground,  "I  shall  owe  much  gratitude  to  the  person 
who  hands  them  to  me." 

He  took  a  step  forward,  whispering :  "  Must  I  be  the 
winner  ?  " 

He  received  no  answer  from  her;  only,  a  wave  of 
blood,  a  blush  that  flooded  her  being  from  her  toes  to 
the  roots  of  her  hair  all  of  a  sudden,  suffused  Violet, 
while  he  stood  awaiting  her  reply.  He  put  out  his 
hand  with  a  fine  self-control.  "Well,  I  must  try," 
he  cried  lightly.  She  just  touched  his  fingers  with 
hers,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  striding  from  her. 

His  cab  was  waiting  outside.     CalHng,  "Quick  as 

125 


The  Late  Tenant    • 

you  can ! "  to  the  driver,  he  sprang  in,  and  they  started 
briskly  away.  He  was  well  content  inwardly.  Some- 
thing birdlike  seemed  new-fledged  and  fluttering  a 
little  somewhere  inside.  He  had  tasted  the  sweet 
poison  of  honey-dew. 

As  for  doubt,  he  had  none  at  the  moment.  Jenny 
he  had  left  safe  with  Mrs.  Grover;  he  was  sure  that 
she  had  the  certificates  with  her.  But  when  he  reached 
the  middle  of  Oxford-St.,  he  saw  that  which  made 
him  start  —  Van  Hupfeldt  in  a  landau  driving  east- 
ward, and,  sitting  beside  the  coachman,  the  valet  Neil. 
What  spurred  David's  interest  was  the  pace  at  which 
the  landau's  horses  were  racing  through  the  traffic, 
and  also  the  face  of  the  man  in  the  carriage,  so  gaunt 
and  wild,  leaning  forward  with  his  two  hands  clenched 
on  his  knees,  as  if  to  press  the  carriage  faster  forward 
by  the  strain  of  his  soul. 

At  once  a  host  of  speculations  crowded  upon  David's 
mind.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  it  occurred  to  him 
that  Neil  may  have  shadowed  him  and  the  girl  to  the 
flat,  that  Van  Hupfeldt  might  have  the  daring  to  be 
on  the  way  to  the  flat  to  win  Jenny  from  him.  He 
felt  that  he  could  hardly  prevail  against  Van  Hupfeldt 
with  Jenny  —  Van  Hupfeldt  being  rich  —  and  the 
two  high-steppers  in  the  landau  were  fast  leaving  the 
cab-horse  behind.  An  eagerness  to  be  quickly  at  his 
flat  rose  in  David,  so  without  stopping  his  cab  he  stood 
out  near  the  splash-board  and  cried  to  his  amazed 
driver:  "I  say!    You  come  inside,  and  let  me  drive." 

126 


Swords  Drawn 

"Mustn't  do  that,  sir.  It  is  more  than  my  place  is 
worth,"  began  the  cabman. 

'*  Two  pounds  for  you,  and  I  pay  all  fines  —  quick 
now!"   said   David. 

The  driver  hesitated,  but  pulled  up.  He  climbed 
down,  went  into  the  cab,  and  David  was  on  the  perch, 
reins  in  hand.  Though  some  persons  were  astonished, 
luckily  no  policeman  saw  them.  The  horse,  as  if 
conscious  of  something  from  Wyoming  behind  him, 
began  to  run.  David  bolted  northward  out  of  the 
traffic,  and  careered  through  the  emptier  streets,  while 
the  old  cab-horse  wondered  what  London  was  coming 
to  when  such  things  could  be,  and  praised  the  days 
of  his  youth.  When  David  drew  up  at  Eddystone 
Mansions,  there  was  no  sign  of  the  landau.  He  ran 
up  the  stairs  three  at  a  time.  He  would  not  await  the 
tardy  elevator.  In  moments  of  stress  we  return  to 
nature  and  cast  off  the  artificial.  Opening  his  door 
with  his  key,  he  made  straight  into  the  drawing-room 
where  he  had  left  Jenny.  Then  his  heart  sank  miser- 
ably, for  she  was  not  there. 

"Mrs.  Grover!"  he  called,  and  when  Mrs.  Grover 
hurried  from  the  kitchen,  her  hands  leprous  with 
pastry-dough,  David  looked  at  her  so  thunderously 
that  she  drew  back. 

Where's  the  girl,  Mrs.  Grover?"  he  growled. 
She's  gone,  sir." 

"  I  see  that.     You  let  her  go,  Mrs.  Grover  ?  " 
Why,  sir,  a  man  came  here,  saying  he  had  a  mes- 

127 


a 


a 


a 


The  Late  Tenant 

sage  from  you  for  the  girl,  and  I  let  him  in.  They  had 
a  talk  together,  then  she  said  she  must  be  going.  I 
couldn't  stop  her." 

David  groaned. 

The  man  who  had  called  was  Neil,  who,  on  hurrying 
to  tell  his  master  where  Jenny  was,  had  been  sent 
back  with  instructions  to  try  and  induce  her  to  leave 
the  flat  and  come  to  Hanover  Square.  Neil  had 
accomplished  this  to  the  extent  of  getting  Jenny  to 
leave  Eddystone  Mansions;  but  she  would  not  go  to 
Strauss,  for  David's  threat  of  the  police  if  she  disposed 
of  the  papers  to  any  one  else  than  their  lawful  owner 
was  in  her  mind,  and  she  now  feared  to  sell  the  papers 
to  Strauss,  as  she  knew  that  she  would  certainly  do 
if  she  once  went  to  his  rooms.  Yet  she  was  sorely 
tempted  to  sell  to  the  lavish  rich  man  rather  than  to 
the  bargainer,  and  so,  making  a  compromise  between 
her  fears  and  her  temptation,  she  had  told  Neil  that 
she  would  wait  in  a  certain  cafe,  and  there  discuss  the 
matter  with  Strauss,  if  Strauss  would  come  to  her. 
She  was  waiting  there,  and  Strauss  was  going  to  her, 
led  by  Neil,  when  David  had  seen  him  in  the  landau. 

At  any  rate,  the  girl  was  gone.  David  felt  as  if  he 
had  lost  all  things.  He  had  promised  the  certificates; 
and  Violet  had  said:  "I  shall  owe  much  gratitude  to 
the  person  who  hands  them  to  me." 

Now  Van  Hupfeldt  had,  or  would  have,  them. 
While  he  had  been  dallying  and  bandying  words  in 
Porchester  Gardens,  Van  Hupfeldt  had  been  acting, 

128 


Swords  Drawn 

and  he  groaned  to  himseit  in  a  pain  of  self-reproach: 
"Too  much  Violet,  David!" 

He  strode  to  and  fro  in  the  dining-room  with  a 
quick  step,  pacing  with  the  lightness  of  a  caged  bear, 
his  fists  clenched,  keen  to  act,  yet  not  knowing  what 
to  do.  The  girl  was  gone,  the  certificates  gone  with 
her. 

One  thing,  however,  he  had  gained  by  the  adven- 
ture, namely,  the  almost  certainty  that  Van  Hupfeldt 
was  Strauss  —  for  he  had  seen  the  valet,  Neil,  who  at 
Piccadilly  Circus  had  declared  that  he  was  Strauss's 
servant,  sitting  on  the  box-seat  of  the  landau  in  which 
was  the  man  whom  David  had  heard  Violet  at  the 
grave  call  "Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt."  This  seemed  a  sort 
of  proof  that  Van  Hupfeldt  and  Strauss  were  one. 
The  same  man  who  had  been  so  bound  up  with  the 
one  sister,  and  had  somehow  brought  her  to  her  death, 
was  now  about  to  marry  the  other!  The  thought  of 
such  a  thing  struck  lightning  from  David's  eyes. 

"  Never  that ! "  he  vowed  in  his  frenzy.  "  However  it 
goes,  not  that!" 

And  then  he  was  angry  afresh  with  her,  thinking: 
"  He  can't  be  much  good,  this  man  —  she  must  be 
easily  won." 

He  could  not  guess  that  Van  Hupfeldt  had  promised 
to  clear  her  sister's  name  six  months  after  the  mar- 
riage, and  that  this  was  her  motive,  and  not  love,  for 
being  won.  He  did  not  realize  that  the  certificates 
now  lost  by  him  would  have  freed  Violet  from  Van 

129 


The  Late  Tenant 

Hupfeldt.  He  believed  that  she  was  entering  Hghtly 
into  marriage  with  a  man  of  great  wealth.  Again,  in 
this  unreasoning  mood,  he  saw  her  in  her  nocturnal 
wanderings. 

But  bitterness  and  regrets  could  not  bring  back  the 
certificates,  in  the  gaining  of  which  her  honor  was 
«  almost  at  stake.  If  he  had  known  where  Van  Hup- 
feldt lived,  he  would  have  gone  straight  there.  Never- 
theless, Van  Hupfeldt  was  not  at  home,  was  hurrying 
away  from  home,  in  fact.  Here,  then,  was  another 
point.  Jenny  had  clearly  not  gone  to  Van  Hupfeldt's 
on  leaving  the  flat,  or  why  should  Van  Hupfeldt  be 
racing  eastward?  It  seemed  that  Jenny  and  Van 
Hupfeldt  were  to  meet  somewhere  else,  perhaps  some- 
where not  far  from  the  mansions.  If  David  had  only 
kept  the  landau  in  sight,  he  might  have  tracked  Van 
Hupfeldt  to  that  meeting!  He  felt  now  that,  if  he 
could  come  upon  them,  then,  by  the  mere  force  and 
whirlwind  of  his  will,  he  should  have  his  way.  On  a 
sudden  he  went  out  again  into  the  streets. 

He  ran  southward  at  a  venture.  If  there  was  a 
conference  going  on  in  any  house  near  by,  and  if  the 
landau  was  waiting  outside,  he  should  recognize  it 
by  the  horses  and  by  Neil  on  the  box.  But,  as  it 
turned  out,  even  this  recognition  was  not  necessary, 
for,  running  down  Bloomsbury-St.,  toward  a  carriage 
of  which  he  caught  sight  standing  before  a  French 
chocolate-shop  at  the  Oxford-St.  corner,  he  saw  a  man 
and  a  girl  come  out  of  the  shop.     The  man  lifted  his 

130 


Swords  Drawn 

hat  and  nodded  toward  the  girl  with  his  foot  on  the 
carriage-step,  and  then  was  driven  off  westward. 
Half  a  minute  afterward  David  had  overtaken  the  girl. 

"  You  wretched  creature ! "  he  said,  in  the  fierce  heat 
of  his  anger  and  haste:  "Hand  me  those  certificates, 
and  be  quick  about  it!" 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  which  certificates  you 
mean,"  said  Jenny,  as  bold  now  as  brass,  for  she  had 
no  doubt  been  strengthened  by  the  interview  in  the 
shop,  and  assured  of  Van  Hupfeldt's  protection. 

This  was  enough  for  David.  He  understood  from 
her  words  that  the  papers  were  now  in  Van  Hupfeldt's 
hands;  whereat  a  flood  of  rage  surged  within  him, 
and,  without  any  definite  purpose,  he  rushed  after 
the  carriage.  It  had  not  gone  far,  because  of  a  block 
of  traffic  near  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and  his  hot 
face  was  soon  thrust  over  the  carriage-door.  Van 
Hupfeldt  shrank  back  into  the  farthest  corner  with  a 
look  of  blank  dismay. 

"  Yes,  you  can  have  them,  Mr.  Strauss  — "  began 
David,  hotly. 

"What  is  it?"  muttered  Van  Hupfeldt,  crouching, 
with  his  hand  on  the  opposite  door-handle.  "That  is 
not  my  name." 

"Whatever  your  name,  or  however  many  names 
you  may  own,  you  can  have  those  papers  now;  but 
there  may  be  other  things  where  they  came  from,  and 
if  they're  there,  I'm  the  man  in  possession,  mark  you, 
and  I'll  be  finding  them  — " 

131 


The  Late  Tenant 

"  Papers !  What  papers  ?  Find  what  ?  "  asked  Van 
Hupfeldt,  with  a  scared  face  that  beUed  his  words. 

"You  cur!"  cried  David,  his  heart  burning  hot 
within  him;  "make  amends  for  your  crimes  while  you 
may.  If  you  don't,  I  tell  you,  I  shall  have  no  mercy. 
Soon  I  shall  have  my  hands  on  you  — " 

"Drive  on!"  screamed  Van  Hupfeldt  to  his  coach- 
man, and,  the  block  of  traffic  having  now  cleared,  the 
horses  trotted  on,  and  left  David  red-faced  with  fury, 
in  imminent  danger  of  being  run  over  by  the  press  of 
vehicles  behind. 


132 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  NIGHT-WATCHES 

David  returned  home  angry  with  himself  in  all 
ways,  not  least  for  his  loss  of  self-control  in  pursuing 
Van  Hupfeldt  with  no  object  but  to  vent  himself  in 
mere  threats.  His  suggestion  to  Van  Hupfeldt  that 
other  documents  besides  the  certificates  might  be 
hidden  among  the  picture-frames  in  the  flat  was  in  the 
tone  of  a  child's  boasting.  One  should  find  first,  he 
told  himself,  and  boast  afterward.  However,  one  of 
Mrs.  Grover's  excellent  little  lunches  put  him  straight, 
and,  though  work  was  a  thousand  miles  from  his 
mood  that  day,  he  compelled  himself  to  do  it,  and 
the  pen  began  to  run. 

But  first  he  had  said  to  Mrs.  Grover:  "I  want  you 
to  get  the  steps,  and  take  down  every  picture  in  the 
flat,  except  the  three  big  ones,  which  I  will  see  to 
myself." 

Then,  with  his  flower-pot  of  violets  on  each  hand, 
he  was  soon  in  the  thick  of  the  cow-boy  and  prairie- 
flower  history  which  he  had  on  hand.  His  stories 
were  already  known  on  this  side  by  the  whiff  of  reality 
they  brought  from  the  States,  and  were  in  some  de- 
mand.    Already   the   postman   handed   him   printers' 

133 


The  Late  Tenant 

proofs,  and  he  had  proved  to  himself  that  he  possessed 
some  of  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  in  choosing  a  repu- 
table abode,  because  the  men  whom  he  entertained 
went  away  saying:  "Harcourt  has  private  means.  He 
has  taken  to  literature  as  a  hobby,"  an  idea  which 
made  him  popular.  If  certain  editors,  on  the  strength 
of  it,  wished  to  pay  him  half-rates,  they  were  soon 
undeceived.  David  was  much  too  hard  a  nut  to 
crack  in  that  easy  way. 

Meantime,  neither  by  sight  nor  sound  had  he  been 
reminded  of  the  eery  experience  of  his  first  night  in 
No.  7.  True,  there  were  noises  during  the  still  hours, 
such  as  had  twice  thrilled  Miss  L'Estrange  and  Jenny. 
But  they  seemed  quite  natural  to  him.  The  dryness 
of  the  interior  of  the  block  of  flats  had  loosened  floor- 
ing-boards and  dislocated  cross-beams,  until  the  mere 
movement  of  an  article  of  furniture  overhead,  or  the 
passing  of  a  next-floor  tenant  from  one  room  to  another, 
would  set  going  creaks  enough  to  give  rise  to  half  a 
dozen  ghost-panics. 

That  night  he  had  to  be  at  the  Holborn  Restaurant 
for  an  annual  dinner  of  internationals,  so  he  struck 
work  soon  after  four,  seeing  that  by  then  Mrs.  Grover's 
task  of  taking  down  and  dusting  was  ended,  and  the 
pictures  now  lay  in  a  pile  by  the  dining-room  sideboard. 
David  procured  himself  a  quantity  of  brown  paper, 
with  gum  and  pincers,  sat  on  the  floor  by  the  pile, 
and,  with  an  effort  to  breathe  no  faster  than  usual, 
set  himself  to  work.     It  was  not  so  slight  a  task  as  it 

134 


The  Night-Watches 

looked,  some  of  the  pictures  being  elaborately  fastened 
with  brown  paper,  tacks,  and  bars;  and,  since  they  were 
not  his  own,  he  had  to  leave  them  not  less  trim 
than  he  found  them.  He  was  resolved  to  trust 
not  even  a  workman  in  this  search.  However, 
being  handy,  a  Jack  of  all  trades,  he  had  got 
some  half  dozen  unfastened  and  again  fastened  before 
six  o'clock. 

His  gum  faihng,  he  called  upon  Mrs.  Grover,  re- 
ceived no  answer,  called  again,  went  searching,  but 
could  not  find  her  in  the  flat.  Wondering  at  this,  he 
stepped  outside  the  front  door  to  invoke  the  services 
of  the  lift-man,  when  a  little  way  down  the  stairs  he 
caught  a  sound  of  voices  in  low  talk.  His  ready  ear 
seemed  to  detect  the  particular  accent  of  his  house- 
keeper, and  he  went  downward,  spying  out  who  it 
might  be.  He  wore  slippers,  and  for  this  reason,  per- 
haps, approached  near  the  speakers  before  he  was 
seen.  They  were  Mrs.  Grover  and  a  young  man. 
The  latter,  the  moment  he  was  aware  of  David's 
presence,  was  gone  like  a  thief,  so  David  did  not  see 
his  face  —  it  was  dark  there  at  that  hour  —  but  he 
had  an  impression  that  it  was  Neil,  Van  Hupfeldt's 
valet,  and  his  legs  of  themselves  started  into  chase; 
but  he  checked  himself. 

"  Who  was  the  man  ? "  he  asked  Mrs.  Grover,  when 
they  had  gone  back  into  the  flat. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  his  name,  sir,"  was  her 
answer. 

135 


<(  I 


(S  I 


The  Late  Tenant 

"  You  know  him,  perhaps.  Is  it  the  same  who  came 
here  to  speak  with  the  girl  I  left  in  your  charge  ?  " 

"  I  believe  it  is  the  same,"  said  Mrs.  Grover,  "  though 
I  didn't  see  him  well." 

"Oh,  you  believe.  What  on  earth  does  he  want  of 
you?" 

"He  kept  asking  me  questions.  I  told  him  to  go 
about  his  business  — " 

"  What  did  he  want  to  know .'' " 

"  Whether  I  was  satisfied  with  my  place,  and  whether 
I  didn't  think  that  a  woman  like  me  could  better  her- 
self, considering  the  wages  I'm  getting  —  " 
That  all  he  wanted  to  know  ? " 
That's  about  all  —  things  hke  that." 

David,  looking  at  her,  said:  "I  am  sure  he  was 
quite  right.  You  deserve  five  times  the  wages  I  am 
gi\ing  you;  so  if  I  pay  you  a  month's  wages  in  ad- 
vance now  —  " 

"But,  sir!" 

"  No,  it's  no  use,  Mrs.  Grover.  You  were  born  for 
greater  things  than  this.  Yet,  wherever  you  go  next, 
do  be  loyal  to  the  man  from  whom  you  earn  your 
bread  against  all  the  world.     Here's  your  money." 

In  vain  Mrs,  Grover  protested.  The  place  was 
good  enough  for  her,  the  flat  not  fit  to  be  left  as  it  was, 
things  not  washed,  something  on  the  fire.  It  was  of 
no  avail.  As  David's  servant  she  was  suddenly  dead. 
He  saw  her  out  with  a  hearty  hand-shake  at  the  door, 
and  his  best  wishes. 

136 


The  Night-Watches 

Only  after  she  was  well  gone  did  he  remember  that 
she  had  forgotten  to  deliver  up  the  front  door-key. 

As  it  was  now  nearly  time  to  dress  for  the  dinner, 
he  left  his  work  on  the  pictures  for  the  day.  In  the 
half  dozen  or  so  which  he  had  taken  to  pieces  he  had 
found  nothing,  and  was  disillusioned,  cross-tempered, 
disturbed  by  many  things. 

He  sat  down  and  wrote  to  Miss  Violet  Mordaunt: 
"I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  have  failed  to  receive  the 
documents  of  which  I  had  the  honor  to  speak  to  you. 
I  have  reason,  however,  to  believe  that  your  fiance, 
Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt,  has  bought  them,  and  from  his 
hand  you  will  perhaps  receive  them." 

But  his  conscience  felt  this  letter  to  be  hard,  ironical, 
and  not  sincere;  for  if,  as  he  suspected.  Van  Hupfeldt's 
name  was  on  the  certificates  as  the  husband  of  dead 
Gwendoline,  Violet  was  little  likely  to  receive  them 
from  Van  Hupfeldt's  hand.  So  he  tore  up  the  note, 
and  wrote  another  which  equally  reflected  his  ill- 
humor.  Nor  did  this  go  through  the  post.  In  the 
end,  though  he  knew  that  she  must  be  anxiously  await- 
ing a  word  of  news  from  him,  he  shirked  for  the  present 
the  task  of  announcing  his  failure  to  her,  and  rushed 
out  to  the  dinner. 

He  came  home  late,  and  as  he  stepped  from  the  lift  to 
the  landing,  something  —  a  light  or  a  fancy  —  caused 
him  to  start.  It  seemed  to  him  that  through  the 
opaque  glass  of  his  door  he  had  seen  a  Hght.  Cer- 
tainly, the  impression  was  gone  in  one  instant,  but  he 

137 


The  Late  Tenant 

had  it.  He  went  in  with  some  disquiet  of  the  nerves. 
All  was  dark,  all  still,  within.  He  turned  on  three 
or  four  of  the  lights  in  rapid  succession,  and  his  eyes 
pierced  here  and  there  without  discerning  anything 
save  familiar  articles  of  furniture. 

The  flat  was  lonely  to  him  that  night.  Though 
Mrs.  Grover  would  not  in  any  case  have  been  there 
at  that  hour,  yet  the  fact  that  she  would  not  come  in 
the  morning  as  usual,  the  fact  that  he  was  now  the 
only  life  in  the  little  home,  made  him  as  solitary  in 
London  as  a  castaway  in  mid-sea.  The  fires  were 
dead.  He  sat  a  little  while  in  his  overcoat  by  the 
dining-room  fireplace,  glanced  at  the  heap  of  pictures, 
at  the  face  of  Gwendoline.  And  now  again  he  started. 
Something  in  the  aspect  of  the  heap  struck  him  as 
new,  as  not  perhaps  the  same  as  when  he  had  gone  out. 

But  here  again  he  seemed  to  himself  the  prey  of  his 
own  fancies.  He  asked  himself  angrily  if  he  was  los- 
ing his  memory  and  his  grip  of  facts.  He  thought 
that  he  had  left  only  two  of  the  pictures  in  pieces; 
now  three  of  them  were  without  their  backs.  As  he 
sat  looking  at  them,  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  all 
at  once  ceased  ticking,  and  this  small  thing  again,  due 
solely  to  his  omission  to  wind  the  clock,  had  an  effect 
upon  his  mood.  He  seemed  to  hear  the  sudden 
silence,  as  it  were  the  ceasing  of  a  heart-beat,  and  the 
"all  is  over"  of  the  bereaved  when  the  last  breath 
passes.  He  rose  and  stretched  himself  and  yawned, 
and  took  in  with  him  to  his  bed-room  one  of  the  pots 

138 


The  Night-Watches 

of  violets,  so  that,  if  he  scented  violets,  he  should 
know  whence  the  scent  came.  And  he  took  care  to 
turn  on  the  light  in  his  bed-room  before  turning  off 
all  the  other  lights.  Could  this  be  David,  the  man 
who  used  to  sleep  beneath  the  stars  ? 

Now  he  lay  down  in  the  dark,  and  all  was  quiet. 
Only,  from  far  away,  from  some  other  polygon  in  the 
hive  of  flats,  came  a  tinkling,  the  genteel  sound  of  the 
piano,  very  faint,  as  remote  from  him  as  was  the  life 
of  her  who  played  it.  He  was  listening  to  it,  thinking 
of  the  isolation  in  which  all  souls  are  more  or  less 
doomed  to  live,  when  the  question  occurred  to  him 
incidentally:  "Am  I  really  alone  in  this  flat?  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  is  not  some  one  with  me  ?  "  He  had 
seemed  to  hear  a  definite  click,  and  if  it  was  not  in  the 
flat,  then,  he  thought,  his  ears  must  be  losing  their 
old  trick  of  exactness. 

He  stole  out  of  bed,  and,  without  making  the  faint- 
est sound,  peeped  out  along  the  corridors.  Nothing 
seemed  to  stir.  Minute  after  minute  he  stood  patiently, 
hearing  only  that  shell-music  which  the  tympanum 
of  the  ear  gives  out  in  deep  silence.  Once  he  caught 
a  Lilliputian  rush,  and  a  screech,  an  escapade  in 
mouseland.  Behind  him  a  small  clock  ticked  in  his 
bed-room,  and  presently  there  was  yet  another  sound, 
low,  but  prolonged,  as  if  paper  was  being  very  cau- 
tiously torn  somewhere. 

Instantly  the  instinct  to  grip  his  six-shooter  in  his 
hand  rose  in  David.     His  former  experience  in  the 

139 


The  Late  Tenant 

flat  had  caused  him  to  have  the  weapon  ready.  Great 
is  that  moment  when  awe  rises  into  indignation  and 
action,  as  now  with  him.  Silently,  with  every  nerve 
strung,  and  each  muscle  nimble  for  the  encounter, 
he  stepped  backward  into  his  bed-room,  and  drew  the 
weapon  from  beneath  his  pillow.  No  longer  careful 
about  hiding  the  fact  that  he  was  awake,  he  made  a 
rush  along  the  longer  corridor  into  the  hall,  caught 
up  the  hall  chair  and  table  and  threw  them  against 
the  door,  heaved  up  the  hat-stand  and  placed  it  also 
against  the  door,  thus  blocking  the  enemy's  retreat. 
And  he  said  to  himself:  "Be  it  ghost,  or  be  it  mortal 
man,  let  there  be  a  fight  to  a  finish  this  time ! " 

But  he  kept  himself  in  the  dark  for  safety's  sake, 
and,  bold  as  his  heart  was,  it  beat  fast,  as  he  now 
stood  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  hall  near  the  door, 
listening  for  his  life.  And  anon  he  sniffed  with  his 
nostrils  for  a  scent  of  violets,  for  a  wafture  from  the 
grave,  which  came  not. 

But  this  waiting  for  he  knew  not  what  was  not  long 
to  be  borne.  Wounds  are  not  so  grisly  to  the  mind 
as  the  touch  of  a  hand  which  cannot  be  grasped.  He 
crept  back  in  the  dark  along  the  wall,  again  noiselessly, 
into  the  corridor,  into  his  bed-room,  locked  the  door, 
and,  with  finger  on  trigger,  switched  on  the  light. 
Keeping  his  ear  alert  for  whatever  might  happen  out- 
side, he  searched  the  room.  No  one  was  under  the 
bed,  or  anywhere  there.  He  turned  off  the  light, 
went  out,  and,  in  a  similar  manner,  searched  behind  a 

140 


The  Night-Watches 

locked  door,  wherever  he  found  a  key  in  the  lock, 
each  of  the  other  two  bed-rooms,  and  the  bath-room. 
In  that  end  of  the  flat  there  was  no  one,  nor  a  scent  of 
anything,  save  the  perfume  of  the  violets  in  his  bed- 
room. And  again  he  began  to  think  that  he  must 
surely  be  the  plaything  of  his  fancies. 

Along  the  corridor  he  crept  again,  and  entered  the 
drawing-room,  locked  the  door,  turned  on  the  light, 
looked  round  to  search.  At  that  instant  he  heard,  he 
felt,  the  flight  of  steps  in  the  flat.  It  was  the  merest 
sign  of  something  detected  by  some  sixth  sense  ac- 
quired by  him  in  barkening  to  the  whispers  of  the 
jungle.  These  were  steps  as  light  and  swift  as  a 
specter's  might  be.  But  he  had  the  notion  that  they 
fled  out  of  the  dining-room  down  the  short  passage 
between  the  kitchen  and  the  servant's  room,  and, 
quick  as  thought,  he  had  out  the  drawing-room  light, 
and  was  after  them. 

The  door  of  the  servant's  bed-room  was  on  the  left 
of  the  cross  passage,  that  of  the  kitchen  on  the  right, 
just  opposite  the  other.  He  went  like  a  cat  which  sees 
in  the  night,  swift  and  soft,  along  the  left  wall,  his 
breast  pressed  to  it,  until,  coming  to  the  servant's 
bed-room  door,  he  gave  a  twist  to  the  handle  to  go  in. 

The  handle  turned  a  little,  but  not  much.  The 
door  would  not  open.  It  seemed  to  be  held  by  some 
one  within,  for  it  was  not  locked,  since  there  happened 
to  be  no  key  in  it. 

Here,  at  any  rate,  was  something  tangible  at  last. 

141 


The  Late  Tenant 

And,  when  it  came  to  be  a  question  of  main  force, 
natural  or  supernatural,  David  was  in  his  element. 
He  set  himself  to  get  that  door-handle  round,  and  it 
turned.  He  put  liimself  into  the  effort  to  press  that 
door  open,  and  it  opened  a  little.  But,  all  at  once,  it 
opened  too  much!  and  he  plunged  staggering  within. 
At  the  same  time  he  was  aware  of  something  rushing 
out;  he  had  just  time  to  snatch  his  revolver  from  the 
waist  of  his  pajamas  and  fire,  when  his  silent  adver- 
sary was  gone,  and  had  vehemently  slammed  the 
door  upon  him.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  another 
door  slammed  —  the  kitchen-door.  Then  all  was 
still  again. 

It  was  as  when  a  mighty  momentary  wind  seizes 
upon  a  house  in  the  dead  of  night,  slams  two  doors, 
causes  something  to  bark,  and  passes  on  its  way.  The 
two  slammings  and  the  bark  of  the  revolver  were  almost 
simultaneous  —  and  silence  swallowed  them  together. 

David  flew  after  the  thing  which  had  evaded  him  to 
the  kitchen-door.  His  blood  was  up.  During  his 
first  experience  of  something  queer  in  the  flat  he  had 
had  an  impression  of  a  woman,  perhaps  on  account 
of  the  scent  of  violets.  But  this  time  there  seemed  to 
be  no  such  scent,  and  this  latest  impression  was  of  a 
man  —  an  impression  hardly  perhaps  due  to  sight, 
for  the  servant's  room  was  about  the  darkest  spot  in 
the  flat,  its  one  small  window  being  shrouded  with 
tapestry  curtains,  and  the  outer  night  itself  dark.  But 
he  somehow  believed  now  that  it  was  a  man,  and  he 

142 


The  Night-Watches 

flung  himself  again  and  again  against  the  kitchen-door 
with  no  good  meaning  toward  that  man.     For  there 
could  be  no  doubt  that  whoever  or  whatever  it  was, 
his  visitant  was  now  in  the  kitchen,  since  the  door 
would  not  open. 

After  some  vain  effort  to  force  it,  he  stopped,  pant- 
ing, thinking  what  he  should  do.  There  was  a  little 
pointed  poker  in  the  dining-room  by  which  he  might 
pick  the  lock;  but  before  deciding  upon  this  he  again 
tried  his  power  of  shoulder  and  will  against  the  door, 
and  this  time  felt  something  give  within.  The  door, 
too,  was  not  really  locked,  having  no  key  in  it,  as,  in 
general,  the  keys  of  old  flats  become  displaced.  It 
was  apparently  only  fastened,  if  it  were  fastened  at  all, 
by  some  catch  or  hook,  for,  after  two  or  three  more 
thumps,  it  flew  wide. 

David,  catching  the  handle,  held  it  a  little  ajar,  and 
now  again  the  stillness  of  the  night  was  outraged  by 
his  shout  through  the  slit:  "Hands  up!  or  I  fire!"  At 
the  same  instant  he  rushed  in,  and  flooded  the  kitchen 
with  light. 

But  no  one  was  there!  A  pallor  struck  from  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  to  his  cheek,  even  while  his  brow 
was  flushed,  and  he  stood  aghast,  with  an  astounding 
question  in  his  eyes  and  in  his  heart. 


143 


CHAPTER  XIII 

NO  MORE  VIOLET 

There  was  little  sleep  for  David  Harcourt  that 
night.  After  his  inrush  into  the  kitchen,  and  his  long 
amazement  to  find  it  empty,  he  again  searched  the 
flat  throughout;  no  one  but  he  was  in  it,  and  no  one 
had  gone  out  through  the  front  door,  for  there  stood 
his  barricade  of  table,  chair,  and  hat-stand,  just  as  he 
had  left  it. 

Tliis  seemed  surely  to  show  that  he  had  to  do  with 
that  which  is  beyond  and  above  natural.  Yet  there 
were  points  against  that  view,  too.  There  was,  first 
of  all,  the  spot  of  blood,  for  in  the  passage  between 
the  servant's  room  and  the  kitchen  he  saw  what  seemed 
to  be  a  spot  of  blood.  The  carpet  was  a  brown  pat- 
tern on  a  pink  ground,  and  in  one  place  the  brown 
looked  redder  than  elsewhere, —  that  was  all.  If  it 
was  blood,  then  the  bullet  shot  by  him,  which  he  now 
found  imbedded  in  the  frame  of  the  kitchen-door, 
may  have  passed  through  some  part  of  a  man;  but  he 
could  not  assert  to  himself  that  it  was  blood. 

There  were,  however,  the  pictures.  Unless  he  was 
dancing  mad,  the  fact  was  certain  that  he  had  left 
only  three  of  them  with  their  backs  undone,  and  now 

144 


No  More  Violet 

there  were  five  —  and  he  refused  to  believe  that  he 
was  indeed  moonstruck. 

So,  then,  a  man  had  been  in  the  flat,  since  no  ghost 
could  materialize  to  the  extent  of  picking  tacks  out 
of  picture-frames.  And,  if  there  had  been  a  man, 
that  man  was  Van  Hupfeldt,  and  no  other.  Van 
Hupfeldt's  motive  would  be  clear  enough.  Miss 
L'Estrange  had  told  Van  Hupfeldt  that  the  certifi- 
cates had  fallen  out  of  the  back  of  a  picture.  David 
himself  had  had  the  rashness,  in  his  rage  at  the  loss  of 
the  certificates,  to  say  over  the  door  of  Van  Hupfeldt's 
landau  that  there  "might  be  other  things  where  the 
certificates  came  from. "  Mrs.  Grover  had  been  seen 
that  afternoon  talking  to  Van  Hupfeldt's  servant. 
She  was  evidently  in  process  of  being  bribed  and  won 
over  to  the  enemy.  She  may  have  told  how  David 
had  had  all  the  pictures  taken  down  and  was  at  work 
on  them,  and  how  he  was  to  be  out  at  an  annual  dinner 
that  night.  She  may  possibly  have  handed  over  to 
Van  Hupfeldt  the  key  of  the  flat,  and  Van  Hupfeldt, 
in  a  crazy  terror  lest  an3i;hing  should  be  found  by 
David  in  the  pictures,  may  have  come  into  the  flat  to 
search  for  himself. 

All  this  seemed  plausible  enough.  But,  then,  how 
had  Van  Hupfeldt  got  away?  Had  he  a  flying-ma- 
chine ?  Was  he  a  griffin  ?  Were  there  holes  in  the 
wall? 

But  if,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  or  some  other  had  been 
in  the  flat,  and  had  some  way  got  out  other  than  by 

145 


The  Late  Tenant 

the  front  door,  here  was  a  new  thought  —  that  Gwen- 
doHne  Mordaunt  may  not,  after  all,  have  committed 
suicide.  Suicide  had  been  assumed  simply  because 
of  the  locked  and  bolted  front  door.  But  how  if  there 
existed  some  other  mysterious  exit  from  the  flat.?  In 
that  case  she  might  have  been  done  to  death  —  by 
Strauss,  by  Van  Hupfeldt,  if  Van  Hupfeldt  was  Strauss. 

David,  no  doubt,  was  all  too  ready  to  think  evil  of 
this  man.  Nevertheless  the  question  confronted  him. 
Why,  he  asked  himself,  should  Gwendoline  have  com- 
mitted siucide  ?  She  was  a  married  woman  —  the 
certificate,  seen  by  Miss  L'Estrange,  proved  that. 
True,  Gwendoline  had  received  some  terrible  letter 
four  days  before  her  death,  as  her  servant  had  told 
David,  and  she  had  said  to  the  girl:  "I  am  not  mar- 
ried. You  think  that  I  am;  but  I  am  not."  Still,  a 
doubt  arose  now  as  to  her  suicide.  Her  sister  Violet 
did  not  believe  in  the  suicide.     Nothing  was  certain. 

However,  this  new  theory  of  the  tragedy  put  David 
upon  writing  to  Violet  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
Vague  as  his  doubt,  it  was  a  set-off  against  his  shame 
of  defeat  in  the  matter  of  the  certificates.  It  was 
something  with  which  to  face  her.  He  resolved  to  tell 
her  at  once  all  that  was  in  his  mind,  even  his  shocking 
suspicion  that  Van  Hupfeldt  was  Strauss,  and  he 
wrote : 

"Mr.  David  Harcourt  has  unfortunately  not  been 
able  to  secure  the  certificates  of  which  he  had  the 
honor  of  speaking  to  Miss  Mordaunt,   but  believes 

146 


No  More  Violet 

that  her  fiance,  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt,  may  be  in  a  posi- 
tion to  give  her  some  information  on  the  subject. 
However,  Mr.  Harcourt  has  other  matters  of  pressing 
importance  to  communicate  to  Miss  Mordaunt  for 
her  advantage,  and,  in  case  she  lacks  the  leisure  to  be 
alone  in  the  course  of  the  day,  he  will  be  pleased  to  be 
at  her  sister's  grave  this  evening  about  five,  if  she  will 
write  him  a  line  to  that  effect." 

He  posted  this  before  eight  in  the  morning,  went 
off  to  seek  his  old  charwoman  in  Clerkenwell,  break- 
fasted outside,  came  home,  and  set  to  work  afresh 
upon  the  pictures. 

And  that  proved  a  day  of  days  for  him.  For,  be- 
fore noon,  on  opening  the  back  of  a  mezzotint  of  the 
"Fighting  Temeraire,"  he  found  a  book,  large,  flat, 
and  ivory-white.  Its  silver  clasp  was  locked.  He 
could  not  see  within,  yet  he  understood  that  it  was  no 
printed  book,  but  in  manuscript,  and  that  here  was 
the  diary  of  Gwendoline  Mordaunt.  He  was  still 
exulting  over  it,  searching  now  with  fresh  zeal  for 
more  treasure,  when  he  received  a  note:  "Miss 
Mordaunt  hopes  to  lay  some  flowers  on  her  sister's 
grave  this  evening  about  five." 

Her  paper  had  a  scent  of  violets,  and  David,  in 
putting  it  to  his  nostrils,  allowed  his  lips,  too,  to  steal 
a  kiss ;  —  for  happy  men  do  sometimes  kiss  scented 
paper.  And  he  was  happy,  thinking  how,  when  he 
presented  the  diary  to  her,  he  would  see  her  glad  and 
thankful. 

147 


The  Late  Tenant 

At  the  very  hour,  however,  when  he  was  thus  re- 
joicing, Van  Hupfeldt  was  going  up  the  stairs  at  60A, 
Porchester  Gardens.  He  was  limping  and  leaning  on 
his  valet,  and  his  dark  skin  was  now  so  much  paler 
than  usual  that  on  his  entrance  into  the  drawing- 
room  Mrs.  Mordaunt  cried  out: 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"Do  not  distress  yourself  at  all,"  said  Van  Hup- 
feldt, limping  on  his  stick  toward  her.  "Only  a 
slight  accident  —  a  fall  off  a  stumbling  horse  in  the 
park  this  morning  —  my  knee  —  it  is  better  now  — " 

"Oh,  I  am  so  sorry!  But  you  should  not  have 
come;  you  are  evidently  still  in  pain.  So  distressing! 
Sit  here;  let  me — " 

"No,  really,"  said  he,  "it  is  nearly  all  right  now, 
dear  Mrs.  Mordaunt.  I  have  so  much  to  say,  and  so 
little  time  to  say  it  in.     Where  is  Violet.'^'* 

"She  is  in  her  J^ed-room;  will  soon  be  down.     Let 
me  place  this  cushion 
She  is  well,  I  hope  ?  " 
Yes;  a  little  strange  and  restless  to-day,  perhaps 

"  What  is  it  now .? " 

"Oh,  some  little  fall  of  the  spiritual  barometer,  I 
suppose.     She  has  not  mentioned  anything  specific  to 


me." 


"You  received  my  telegram  of  this  morning.^" 
"Saying  that  you  would  come  at    half -past    one? 
Yes." 

"Well,  I  am  lucky  to  have  found  you  alone,  for  in 

148 


No  More  Violet 

what  I  have  now  to  suggest  to  you,  I  do  not  wish  my 
influence  to  appear  —  let  it  seem  to  be  done  entirely 
on  your  own  impulse  —  but  I  have  to  beseech  you, 
Mrs.  Mordaunt,  to  return  to  Rigs  worth  this  very  day.'* 

"  To-day  ?  Rigsworth  ?  But  there  are  still  a  host 
of  things  to  be  seen  to  before  the  wedding  —  " 

"I  know,  I  know.  Even  at  the  cost  of  putting  off 
the  wedding  for  a  week,  if  you  will  do  all  that  is  to 
be  done  from  Rigsworth  instead  of  in  London,  you 
will  profoundly  oblige  me.  I  had  hoped  that  you 
would  this  do  for  me  without  requiring  my  reason,  but 
I  see  that  I  must  give  it,  and  without  any  beating 
about  the  bush.  Only  give  me  first  your  assurance 
that  you  will  breathe  not  one  word  to  Violet  of  what 
I  am  forced  to  tell  you." 

"  Good  gracious !    What  has  happened  ? " 

"Promise  me  this." 

"Well,  I  shall  be  discreet." 

"Then,  I  have  to  tell  you  that  Violet  has  made  an 
undesirable  acquaintance  in  London,  one  whom  it  is 
of  supreme  importance,  if  our  married  life  is  to  be 
a  success,  that  she  should  see  not  once  again.  It  is  a 
man  —  No,  don't  be  unduly  alarmed  —  I  don't  for  a 
moment  suspect  that  their  intimacy  has  proceeded 
far,  but  it  has  proceeded  too  far,  and  must  go  no  farther. 
I  may  tell  you  that  it  is  my  belief  that  letters,  or  notes, 
have  passed  between  them,  and,  to  my  knowledge, 
they  have  met  at  least  once  by  appointment  in  Kensal 
Green  cemetery,  for  I  have  actually  surprised  them 

149 


The  Late  Tenant 

there.  Now,  pray,  don't  be  distressed.  Don't,  now, 
or  I  shall  regret  having  told  you.  Certainly,  it  is  a 
serious  matter,  but  don't  think  it  more  serious  than  it 
is—" 

"Violet.^"  breathed  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  with  a  long 
face. 

"The  facts  are  as  I  have  stated  them,"  proceeded 
Van  Hupfeldt,  "and  when  the  knowledge  of  them 
came  to  me,  I  was  at  some  pains  to  make  inquiries  into 
the  personality  of  the  man  in  question.  He  turns  out 
to  be  a  man  named  Harcourt." 

"Oh,  you  mean  Mr.  Harcourt,  the  occupier  of  the 
flat  in  Eddystone  Mansions  ?  Why,  he  was  here 
yesterday.     Violet  herself  told  me  — " 

"Here.^  Yesterday?"  Van  Hupfeldt  turned  sud- 
denly greenish.     "But  why  so?    What  did  the  man 

"  Violet  did  not  seem  to  wish  to  be  explicit,"  answered 
Mrs.  Mordaunt;  "but  I  understood  from  her  that  he 
is  interested  in  Gwendoline's  fate." 

"He?  By  what  right  does  he  dare?  He  is  in- 
terested in  Violet!  That  is  whom  the  man  is  in- 
terested in,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  I  tell  you!  And  do  you 
know  what  this  man  is  ?  I  have  been  at  the  pains  to 
discover  —  a  scribbler  of  books,  a  man  of  notoriously 
bad  character  who  has  had  to  fly  from  America  — " 

"How  awful!  But  Mr.  Dibbin,  the  agent,  had 
references  —  " 

"References  are  quite  useless.     It  is  as  I  say,  and  I 

150 


No  More  Violet 

am  not  guessing  wiien  I  assert  to  you  that  Violet  has  a 
penchant  for  this  man  —  a  most  dangerous  penchant, 
which  can  lead  to  nothing  but  disaster,  if  it  be  not  now 
scotched  in  the  bud.  I  demand  it  as  my  right,  and  I 
beseech  it  as  a  friend,  that  she  never  see  him  again.*' 

"  Yet  it  is  all  most  strange.  I  think  you  exaggerate. 
Violet's  fancies  are  not  errant." 

"Well,  say  that  I  exaggerate.  But  you  will  at  least 
sympathize,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  with  my  sense  of  the 
acute  danger  of  your  further  stay  in  London  at  pres- 
ent—" 

"I  think  you  make  a  mountain  of  a  molehill,  Mr. 
Van  Hupfeldt,"  said  Mrs.  Mordaunt  with  some  dry- 
ness, "and  I  am  sorry  now  that  I  have  promised  not 
to  speak  with  Violet  on  the  subject.  Of  course,  I 
recognize  your  right  to  have  your  say  and  your  way, 
but  as  for  leaving  London  to-day  at  a  moment's  notice, 
really  that  can't  be  done." 

"Not  to  oblige  me?  not  to  please  me.^"  said  he, 
grasping  the  old  lady's  hand  with  a  nervous  intensity 
of  gesture  that  almost  startled  her. 

"We  might  go  to-morrow,"  she  admitted. 

"  But  if  they  correspond  or  meet  to-night  ?  " 

"Well,  you  are  a  lover,  of  course;  but  you  shouldn't 
start  at  shadows.     Here  is  Violet  herself.'* 

"Leave  us  a  little,  will  you.^"  whispered  Van  Hup- 
feldt, rising  to  meet  the  girl  in  his  impulsive  foreigner's 
way,  but,  forgetting  his  wounded  leg,  he  had  to  stop 
short  with  a  face  of  pain. 

151 


The  Late  Tenant 

"  Are  you  ill  ?  "  asked  Violet,  and  a  certain  aloofness 
of  manner  did  not  escape  him. 

"  A  small  accident  — "  he  told  over  again  the  his- 
tory of  his  fall  from  a  horse  which  had  never  borne 
him.  Mrs.  Mordaunt  went  out.  Violet  stood  at  a 
table,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book,  while  Van 
Hupfeldt  searched  her  face  under  his  anxious  eyes, 
and  there  was  a  silence  between  them,  until  Violet, 
taking  from  her  pocket  David's  first  unsigned  note 
to  her,  held  it  out,  saying:  "It  was  you  who  sent  me 
this .? " 

"I  have  told  you  so,"  answered  Van  Hupfeldt, 
gray  to  the  lips.     '*  Why  do  you  ask  again  }  " 

"Because  I  am  puzzled,"  she  answered.  "I  have 
this  morning  received  a  note  in  this  same  handwriting, 
unless  I^am  very  much  mistaken,  a  note  from  a  cer- 
tain Mr.  —  " 

"  Yes.     Harcourt  —  Christian  name  David." 

"  Quite  so.  David  Harcourt  —  I  can  say  it,"  she 
answered  quietly.  "But  how,  then,  comes  it  that 
your  note  and  his  are  in  the  same  handwriting  ?  " 

Van  Hupfeldt's  lips  opened  and  shut,  his  eyes 
shifted,  and  yet  he  chuckled  with  the  uneasy  mirth  of 
a  ghoul:  "The  solution  of  that  puzzle  doesn't  seem 
difficult  to  me." 

"You  mean  that  you  got  Mr.  Harcourt  to  write 
your  note  for  you  ?  "  asked  Violet. 

"You  are  shrewdness  itself,"  answered  Van  Hup- 
feldt. 

152 


No  More  Violet 

"I  did  not  know  that  you  even  knew  him." 

"Ah,  I  know  him  well." 

"Well,  then,  have  you  brought  the  certificates?" 
she  asked  keenly. 

"Which  certificates?" 

"  Which  ?  You  ask  that  ?  Surely,  surely,  you  know 
that  a  certificate  of  marriage  and  one  of  birth  were 
found  in  the  flat  by  a  Miss  L'Estrange  ?  " 

"No,  I  didn't  know.     How  could  I  know?" 

"  But  am  I  in  a  dream  ?  I  have  made  sure  that  it 
was  upon  some  knowledge  of  them  that  you  relied 
when  you  wrote  in  the  unsigned  note,  *It  is 
now  a  pretty  certain  thing  that  your  sister  was  a 
duly  wedded  wife.' "  And  she  looked  at  David's  letter 
again. 

"No,  I  had  other  grounds.  I  needn't  tell  you  what, 
since  they  are  not  yet  certain  —  other  grounds.  I 
have  not  heard  yet  of  any  certificates  — " 

"Well,  God  help  me,  then!"  she  murmured,  half- 
crying.  "What,  then,  does  Mr..  Harcourt  mean?  He 
says  in  the  note  of  this  morning:  *Mr.  Harcourt  has 
not  been  able  to  secure  the  certificates,  but  believes 
that  Miss  Mordaunt's  fiance,  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt,  may 
be  in  a  position  to  give  her  some  information  on  the 
subject.'  What  does  that  mean  when  you  never  even 
heard  of  the  certificates  ?  " 

Van  Hupfeldt,  looking  squarely  now  at  her,  said: 
"It  means  nothing  at  all.  You  may  take  it  from  me 
that  no  certificates  have  been  found." 

153 


The  Late  Tenant 

Violet  flushed  angrily.  "Some  one  is  untrue!"  she 
cried  out. 

"I  fear  that  that  is  so,"  murmured  Van  Hupfeldt, 
dropping  his  eyes  from  her  crimsoned  face. 

There  was  silence  then  for  a  while. 

"With  what  object  did  this  Harcourt  come  to  you 
yesterday,  Violet  ?  "  asked  Van  Hupfeldt. 

"He  wished  to  obtain  my  mother's  authorization 
for  him  to  spend  one  hundred  pounds  in  buying  the 
certificates  from  Miss  L'Estrange's  servant." 

"Ah,  that  was  what  he  said  was  his  object.  But 
his  real  object  was  slightly  different,  I'm  afraid.  I 
know  this  man,  you  see.     He  is  poor,  and  not  honest." 

"  Not  honest  .^  " 

"No,  not  honest." 

•'You  say  such  a  thing?" 

"  But  what  is  it  to  you  ?  Why  do  you  care  ?  Why 
are  you  pale?  Yes,  I  say  it  again,  not  honest!  the 
miserable  ruffian." 

"If  he  heard  you,  I  think  he  might  resent  it  with 
some  vigor,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  so  strangely  ?  What  is  it  ?  Do 
you  doubt  what  I  tell  you  ?  "  asked  Van  Hupfeldt. 

"I  neither  doubt  nor  believe.  What  is  it  to  me? 
I  only  feel  ashamed  to  live  in  the  same  world  with  such 
people.  If  it  was  not  to  obtain  my  authorization  to 
spend  the  one  hundred  pounds  for  the  certificates,  why 
did  he  come  ?  " 

"There  were  no  certificates!"  cried  Van  Hupfeldt, 

154 


No  More  Violet 

vehemently.  "The  certificates  were  an  invention. 
What  he  really  wanted  was,  not  your  authorization, 
but  the  one  hundred  itself.  He  hoped  that  when  he 
asked  for  your  authorization,  you,  in  your  eagerness 
to  have  the  certificates,  would  produce  the  one  hundred 
pounds,  which  to  a  man  in  his  position  is  quite  a  large 
sum,  whereupon  he  would  have  decamped,  and  you 
would  have  heard  no  more  either  of  him  or  of  your 
one  hundred  pounds.  But,  as  you  did  not  hand  him 
the  money,  he  now  very  naturally  writes  to  say  that 
he  can't  get  the  certificates.  I  know  the  fellow  very 
well.  I  have  long  known  him.  He  comes  from 
America,  where  he  has  played  such  ingenious  pranks 
once  too  often." 

Violet  sighed  with  misery,  like  one  who  hears  the  unfa- 
vorable verdict  of  a  doctor.  "  Oh,  don't ! "  she  murmured. 

"I  am  sorry  to  offend  your  ears,"  said  Van  Hup- 
feldt,  looking  with  interest  at  his  nails,  for  they  had 
nearly  dug  into  the  palms  of  his  hands  a  few  minutes 
earlier,  "but  it  was  necessary  to  tell  you  this.  This 
is  not  the  sort  of  man  who  ought  ever  to  have  entered 
your  presence.  How,  by  the  way,  did  you  come  to 
know  him  ?  " 

"I  met  him  by  chance  at  my  sister's  grave.  He 
told  me  that  he  is  the  tenant  of  the  flat.  He  seemed 
good.  I  don't  know  what  to  do!"  She  let  herself 
fall  into  a  chair,  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand,  and 
stared  miserably  into  vacancy,  while  Van  Hupfeldt, 
limping  nearer,  said  over  her: 

155 


The  Late  Tenant 

» 

"You  ought  to  promise  me,  Violet,  never  again  to 
allow  yourself  to  hold  any  sort  of  communication  with 
this  person.  You  will  hardly,  indeed,  be  able  to  see 
him  again,  for  Mrs.  Mordaunt  has  just  been  telling 
me  of  her  sudden  resolve  to  go  down  to  Rigsworth 
to-morrow  morning." 

"  To-morrow  ?  " 

"So  she  says;  and  perhaps  on  the  whole  it  is  best, 
don't  you  think "?  " 

Violet  shrugged  hopeless  shoulders.  "I  don't  care 
one  bit  either  way,"  she  said. 

"So,  then,  that  is  agreed  between  us.  You  won't 
ever  write  to  him  again." 

"I  don't  undertake  anything  of  that  kind,"  she 
retorted.  "  I  must  have  time  to  think.  Are  you  quite 
sure  that  all  this  infamy  is  the  God's  truth  ^  It  is  as 
if  you  said  that  mountain  streams  ran  ink.  The  man 
told  me  that  there  were  certificates.  They  fell  out 
of  a  picture-frame,  he  said.  He  looked  true,  he 
seemed  good  and  honest;  he  is  a  young  man  with  dark- 
blue  eyes  —  " 

"He  is  a  beast!" 

"  I  don't  know  that  yet,  I  have  no  certain  proof.  I 
was  to  see  him  this  evening." 

"  To  see  him  ?  Ah,  but  never  again,  never  again ! 
And  would  you  now,  after  hearing  —  " 

"I  am  not  sure.  I  must  have  time  to  think,  I  must 
have  proof.  I  have  no  proof.  It  is  hard  on  me,  after  all." 

"What  is  hard  on  you?"  demanded  Van  Hupfeldt; 

156 


No  More  Violet 

and,  had  not  the  girl  been  so  distraught,  she  would 
have  seen  that  he  had  the  semblance  more  of  a  mur- 
derer than  of  a  lover.  "What  proofs  do  you  want 
beyond  my  word  ?  The  man  said  that  there  were 
certificates,  did  he  not?  Well,  let  him  produce  them. 
The  fact  that  he  can't  is  a  proof  that  there  were  none." 

"  Not  quite.  No  —  there  is  a  doubt.  He  should 
have  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  A  man  should  not  be 
condemned  before  he  is  tried,  after  all.  If  Miss 
L'Estrange  was  to  say  that  there  were  no  certificates, 
that  would  be  proof.  You  must  know  her  address  — 
give  it  to  me,  and  let  me  go  straight  to  her  — " 

"Certainly,  I  have  her  address,"  said  Van  Hup- 
feldt,  his  eyes  winking  a  little  with  crafty  thought, 
"  but  not,  of  course,  in  my  head.  You  shall  have  it  in 
a  day  or  two.  You  can  then  write  and  question  her 
from  Rigsworth,  and  she  will  tell  you  that  no  cer- 
tificate ever  fell  out  of  any  picture."  He  thought  to 
himself:  "for  I  shall  see  that  she  tells  you  what  I  wish, 
if  she  has  any  love  of  money." 

"But  couldn't  you  give  me  the  address  to-day?" 
asked  Violet.     "That  would  settle  everything  at  once." 

"To-day  I'm  afraid  it  is  out  of  the  question,"  an- 
swered Van  Hupfeldt.  "I  have  it  put  away  in  some 
drawer  of  some  bureau.  It  may  take  a  day  or  two; 
but  find  it  I  will,  and,  meantime,  is  it  much  to  expect 
that  my  angel  will  believe  in  her  one  best  and  eternal 
friend  ?  Assure  me  now  that  you  will  not  see  this  un- 
desirable person  this  evening." 

157 


The  Late  Tenant 

"I  do  not  mean  to  at  this  moment,  but  I  do  not 
decide.  I  said  that  I  would.  He  pretends  he  has 
something  to  say  to  me  —  " 

"He  has  nothing!  He  is  merely  impudent.  Where 
were  you  to  see  him  ?  At  the  grave,  I  tliink  ?  At  the 
grave  r 

Violet  blushed  and  made  no  answer.  Mrs.  Mor- 
daunt  came  in.  "So,  mother,"  said  Violet  to  her, 
"  we  go  home  to-morrow  ^  " 

"I  have  thought  that  it  might  be  well,  dear,"  an- 
swered her  mother,  "in  which  case  we  shall  have 
enough  to  do  between  now  and  then." 

"  But  why  the  sudden  decision  ?  " 

"We  are  not  at  all  moments  our  own  masters  and 
mistresses,  dear.  This  at  present  seems  the  indicated 
course,  and  we  must  follow  it." 

"  May  I  have  the  pleasure  to  come  with  you,  if  only 
for  a  day  or  two  ?  "  asked  Van  Hupfeldt. 

"Of  course,  we  are  always  glad  of  your  company, 
Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt,"  answered  Mrs.  Mordaunt;  "but 
it  is  such  a  trying  journey,  and  it  may  affect  your 
injury." 

"Not  trying  to  me  where  Violet  is,"  said  Van  Hup- 
feldt. 

"Violet  should  be  a  happy  girl  to  have  so  much 
devotion  lavished  upon  her,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs. 
Mordaunt,  with  a  fond  smile  at  her  daughter.  "I  do 
hope  that  she  is  duly  grateful  to  you,  and  to  the  Giver 
of  all  our  good." 

158 


No  More  Violet 

Violet  said  nothing.  In  iier  gloomy  eyes,  if  one  had 
looked,  dwelt  a  rather  hunted  look.  She  presently 
left  Van  Hupfeldt  and  her  mother,  and  in  her  own 
room  lay  on  a  couch  thinking  out  her  problem.  "To 
go  to  the  grave,  or  not  to  go  ? " 

She  had  promised:  but  how  if  David  Harcourt  was 
truly  the  thing  which  he  was  said  to  be  ?  Her  maiden 
mind  shrank  and  shuddered.  It  was  possibly  false, 
but,  then,  it  was  possibly  true  —  all  men  seemed  to  be 
liars.  She  had  better  wait  and  first  hear  the  truth 
from  Miss  L'Estrange.  If  Miss  L'Estrange  proved 
him  false,  she,  Violet,  would  give  herself  one  luxury, 
the  writing  to  him  of  one  note  —  such  a  note !  sting- 
ing, crushing,  killing!  After  which  she  would  forget 
once  and  forever  that  such  a  being  had  ever  lived, 
and  seemed  nice,  and  been  detestable.  Meantime,  it 
would  be  too  unmaidenly  rash  to  see  him.  It  could 
not  be  done;  however  much  he  drew  her  with  his 
strong  magnetism,  she  should  not,  and  would  not. 
Why  could  he  not  have  been  good,  and  grand,  and 
high,  and  everything  that  is  noble  and  wonderful,  as  a 
man  should  be?  In  that  case,  ah,  then!  As  it  was, 
how  could  she  ?  It  was  his  own  fault,  and  she  hated 
him.  Still,  she  had  promised,  and  one  should  keep 
one's  word  unless  the  keeping  becomes  impossible. 
Moreover,  since  she  was  to  leave  London  on  the 
morrow,  she  should  dearly  like  to  see  the  grave  once 
more.  The  new  wreath  must  be  already  on  its  way 
from    the    florist's.     She    would    like    to    go,    dearly, 

159 


The  Late  Tenant 

dearly,  if  only  it  were  not  for  the  lack  of  dignity  and 
reserve. 

Thinking  such  thoughts,  she  lay  so  long  that  Van 
Hupfeldt  went  away  without  seeing  her  again;  but  he 
had  no  intention  of  leaving  it  to  chance  whether  she 
saw  David  that  evening  or  not.  Certain  that  the 
rendezvous  was  at  the  grave,  his  cautious  mind  pro- 
ceeded to  take  due  precautions,  and  by  three  o'clock 
the  eyes  of  his  spy,  a  young  woman  rather  overdressed, 
were  upon  the  grave  in  the  Kensal  Green  cemetery, 
while  Van  Hupfeldt  himself  was  sitting  patient  in  the 
smoking-room  of  a  near  hotel,  ready  to  be  called  the 
moment  a  sign  of  Violet  should  be  seen. 

Violet,  however,  did  not  go  to  the  grave.  About 
four  o'clock  one  of  the  servants  of  60 A,  Porchester 
Gardens,  arrived  at  the  cemetery  in  a  cab,  went  to  the 
grave,  put  the  new  wreath  on  it,  and  on  the  wreath 
put  an  envelope  directed  to  "David  Harcourt,  Esq," 
and  went  away.  The  moment  she  was  gone.  Van 
Hupfeldt's  spy  had  the  envelope,  and  with  it  hurried  to 
him  in  the  hotel.  Breaking  it  open  without  hesitation, 
he  read  the  words :  "  Miss  Mordaunt  regrets  that  she  is 
unable  to  visit  her  sister's  grave  to-day,  as  she  hoped, 
and  from  to-morrow  morning  she  will  be  in  the  country; 
but  if  Mr.  Harcourt  really  has  anything  of  importance 
to  communicate  to  her,  he  may  write,  and  she  will 
reply.  Her  address  is  Dale  Manor,  Rigsworth,  near 
Kenilworth,  Warwickshire." 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  handwriting?"  Van 

160 


No  More  Violet 

Hupfeldt  asked  of  his  she-attendant,  showing  her  the 
note.     "  Do  you  think  you  could  imitate  it  ?  " 

"It  is  big  and  bold  enough;  it  doesn't  look  difficult 
to  imitate,"  was  the  critical  estimate. 

"  Just  have  a  try,  and  let  me  see  your  skill.    Write  —  " 

He  dictated  to  her  the  words:  "Miss  Mordaunt 
has  duly  received  from  her  fiance,  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt, 
the  certificates  of  which  Mr.  Harcourt  spoke  to  her,  so 
that  all  necessity  for  any  communication  betw^een  Mr. 
Harcourt  and  Miss  Mordaunt  is  now  at  an  end.  Miss 
Mordaunt  leaves  London  to-day." 

The  scribe,  after  several  rewritings,  at  last  shaped 
the  note  into  something  really  like  Violet's  writing. 
It  was  then  directed  to  "David  Harcourt."  The 
young  woman  took  it  to  the  grave,  and  it  was  placed 
on  the  wreath  of  violets  where  the  purloined  note  had 
lain. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  David,  full  of  anticipation 
and  hope,  the  diary  in  his  hand,  drew  near  to  Kensal 
Green.  For  some  time  he  did  not  go  quite  to  the 
grave,  but  stood  at  the  bend  of  the  path,  whence  he 
should  be  able  to  see  her  feet  coming,  and  the  blooming 
beneath  them  of  the  March  daisies  in  the  turf.  But 
she  did  not  come.  The  minutes  went  draggingly  by. 
Strolling  presently  nearer  the  grave,  he  noticed  the 
fresh  wreath,  and  the  letter  laid  on  it. 

He  stood  a  long  while  by  the  lona  cross  over  the 
violets,  while  the  dusk  deepened  to  a  gloom  like  that 
of  his  mind.     How  empty  seemed  London  now !     And 

161 


The  Late  Tenant 

all  life,  how  scantless  and  stale  now,  without  the 
purple  and  perfume  of  her!  For  she  was  gone,  and 
"all  necessity  for  any  communication  between  her 
and  him  was  now  at  an  end."  He  went  away  from  the 
cemetery  whistling  a  tune,  with  a  jaunty  step,  in  order 
to  persuade  himself  that  his  heart  was  not  hollow,  nor 
his  mind  black  with  care. 


162 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  DIARY 

For  some  time  after  this  disappearance  of  Violet, 
David  needed  the  focusing  of  all  his  manhood  to  set 
himself  to  work.  His  feeling  was  that  nothing  is 
worth  while.  He  wished  to  sit  in  his  easy-chair,  stare, 
and  be  vaguely  conscious  of  the  coming  and  going  of 
his  charwoman.  An  old  Londoner  now,  he  no  longer 
heard  the  roar,  nor  stifled  at  the  smoke  of  that  torrent 
that  goes  up  forever.  He  could  have  sat  over  his  fire 
in  a  sort  of  abstract  state,  without  thought,  hope,  or 
care,  for  days.  If  he  took  up  the  pen  he  groaned ;  but 
he  did  take  it  up,  and  it  proved  medicinal.  Little  by 
little  he  acquired  tone. 

Meantime,  he  would  often  re-read  the  note  which 
had  had  so  powerful  an  effect  on  him,  until  one  day, 
in  the  ripening  of  his  mind,  the  thought  rose  in  him: 
"There's  something  queer  here.  She  must  have  been 
very  agitated  when  she  wrote  this!" 

Then  he  began  to  think  that  it  was  not  quite  like 
Violet's  writing.  Presently  hope,  energy,  action  burst 
into  blossom  afresh  within  him.  Suppose,  he  thought, 
that  the  whole  business  was  somehow  a  trick  of  that 
man  ?     Suppose  that  she  was  in  London  all  the  time  ? 

163 


The  Late  Tenant 

He  wrote  to  her  at  Porchester  Gardens  that  day,  but 
received  no  answer.  Van  Hupfeldt  had  given  orders 
that  all  letters  for  the  Mordaunts  should  be  sent  to  him, 
nor  did  he  send  on  David's  letter  to  Violet,  for  he  knew 
David's  writing.  Moreover,  he  had  warned  the  pro- 
prietors at  Porchester  Gardens  that  a  certain  man, 
who  was  likely  to  make  himself  troublesome  to  the 
Mordaunts,  might  present  himself  there  in  the  hope  of 
learning  their  address  in  the  country,  in  view  of  which 
they  had  better  give  the  address  to  no  one. 

Now,  at  David's  only  meeting  with  Violet  at  the 
grave,  she  had  mentioned  to  him  her  country  address, 
but,  having  heard  it  only  once  and  that  heedlessly, 
when  his  brain  was  full  of  new  notions,  it  had  so  far 
passed  out  of  his  mind  in  the  course  of  time  that  all 
that  he  could  remember  of  it  was  that  it  was  in  War- 
wickshire. Nor  could  any  racking  of  his  brains 
bring  back  more  of  it  than  the  name  of  the  county. 
After  some  days  he  betook  himself  to  Porchester 
Gardens. 

"Is  Mrs.  Mordaunt  at  home?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  was  the  answer,  "she  isn't  staying  here  now. 
She  is  in  the  country." 

That  much,  then,  of  the  note  found  on  the  grave 
was  true. 

"  When  did  she  go  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Last  Tuesday  week,"  was  the  answer. 

The  note  was  true! 

"I  have    written    Miss    Mordaunt   a   letter,"    said 

164 


The  Diary 

David,  "  telling  her  that  I  have  in  my  possession  some- 
thing which  I  know  that  she  would  like  to  have,  and 
have  received  no  answer.  I  suppose  you  forward  her 
letters  on  to  her  ?  " 

"Yes;  we  send  them  to  a  gentleman  who  forwards 
them  on." 

"  Ah  .^     What  gentleman  is  that  ^  " 

"A  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt." 

"I  see.  But  can  you  give  me  Mrs.  Mordaunt's 
address  .^ " 

"We  are  not  to  give  it;  but  any  letters  will  be  sent 


on." 


"  Through  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt .? " 

"Yes." 

"But  suppose  I  send  you  one  with  a  cross  on  the 
envelope,  would  you  do  me  the  special  favor  to  send 
that  one  on  direct,  not  through  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt  ? " 

"We  have  instructions  as  to  the  Mordaunts'  letters," 
said  the  landlady,  "and,  of  course,  we  follow  them." 

"Well,  but  you  seem  very  inflexible,  especially  as  I 
tell  you—" 

"  Can't  help  that,  sir.  We  were  told  that  you  would 
be  turning  up,  and  I  give  you  the  answer  which  I  was 
directed  to  give.  It  is  quite  useless  to  come  here  mak- 
ing any  request  as  to  the  Mordaunts." 

David  went  away  discomforted.  There  remained 
to  him  one  hope  —  Dibbin.  He  ran  round  to  Dibbin's 
and  asked  for  the  address. 

"I*m   afraid   I'm   hardly   authorized   to   do   that," 

165 


The  Late  Tenant 

answered  the  agent,  to  whom  such  appeals  were 
matters  of  every-day  business. 

"Do  be  reasonable,"  urged  David.  "Miss  Mor- 
daunt  herself  gave  me  her  address,  only  I  have  let  it 
slip  out  of  my  mind." 

Dibbin  shook  his  head  like  an  emblem  of  doubt. 
"Of  course,"  he  said,  "I  shall  be  happy  to  send  on 
anything  which  you  commit  to  me." 

"Direct?"  asked  David,  "or  through  Van  Hup- 
feldt .? " 

"Direct,  of  course,"  answered  Dibbin.  "I  have 
no  sort  of  instructions  with  respect  to  Mr.  Van  Hup- 
feldt." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him,  Dibbin  ?  " 

"Never." 

"  Don't  happen  to  know  his  address  ?  " 

"No;  I  merely  knew  his  name  quite  lately  by  repute 
as  that  of  a  man  of  wealth  about  town,  and  as  an 
acquaintance  of  the  Mordaunts." 

"'Acquaintance'  is  good,  as  a  phrase,"  David  could 
not  help  blurting  out.  "Well,  I  have  something  be- 
longing to  Miss  Mordaunt,  and  will  send  you  a  letter 
to  forward." 

That  day  the  letter  was  written  and  sent,  a  stiff- 
stark  little  missive,  informing  Miss  Mordaunt  that  Mr. 
Harcourt  had  duly  received  the  note  left  on  the  grave, 
and  had  once  before  written  her  to  say  so,  as  well  as 
to  tell  her  that  he  had  in  his  possession  a  book  which 
he  believed  to  be  the  diary  of  her  sister.     He  did  not 

166 


The  Diary 

care  to  send  it  her  through  another,  but  would  at  once 
forward  it  on  receiving  a  Hne  from  her. 

After  two  days  came  an  answer:  Miss  Mordaunt 
thanked  Mr.  Harcourt  extremely  for  his  pains,  and 
would  be  glad  to  receive  the  book  to  which  he  referred 
at  "  the  above  address, "  that  address  being :  "  The 
Cedars,  Birdhp,  Gloucestershire." 

David  actually  had  the  diary  wrapped  up  to  send  to 
this  address.  Then  he  paused.  The  handwriting  of 
the  note  was  not  quite  like  that  of  the  note  in  which 
she  had  made  the  appointment  with  him  at  the  grave. 
It  was  rather  Uke  the  writing  of  the  note  which  he 
had  found  with  the  wreath  —  not  quite,  perhaps,  the 
same.  And  then  again  the  address  which  she  had 
given  him  by  word  of  mouth  that  jfirst  evening  at 
Kensal  Green  was  in  Warwickshire.  He  remembered 
that  much,  beyond  doubt.  Was  she,  then,  spending 
some  time  with  friends  at  "  The  Cedars  "  in  —  Glou- 
cestershire .^  He  thought  that  it  might  be  a  good 
thing,  before  sending  the  diary,  if  he  took  a  run  down 
into  Gloucestershire  to  make  sure  that  she  was  really 
there. 

This  he  did  the  next  day,  and  found  that  "The 
Cedars"  was  a  mansion  two  miles  from  the  village 
of  Birdhp,  old,  somewhat  dismantled,  shut  up,  occu- 
pied only  by  a  few  retainers.     No  Violet  was  there. 

He  learned  at  one  of  the  village  taverns  that  the  place 
was  the  property  of  Van  Hupfeldt.  He  took  the  diary 
back  to  London  with  him  that  same  night. 

167 


The  Late  Tenant 

What  seemed  certain  to  him  now  was  that  Van 
Hupfeldt  himself  or  some  agent  of  Van  Hupfeldt's 
must  be  in  the  Mordaunts'  house,  and  that  this  letter 
sent  through  Dibbin  had  never  reached  Violet.  So 
again  he  was  cut  off  from  her.  Not  one  word  could 
he  speak  to  her.  He  craved  only  for  one  small  word. 
When  that  marriage  of  hers  with  Van  Hupfeldt  was 
to  take  place  he  did  not  know;  but  he  felt  that  it  might 
be  soon.  He  had  taken  upon  himself  to  say  to  her 
that  it  should  never  be,  and  not  one  word  could  he 
utter  to  prevent  it.  He  had  forgotten,  and  his  brain 
would  not  give  up  its  dead.  He  beat  his  brow 
upon  his  dining-room  table  where  his  head  had  dropped 
wearily  on  his  coming  home  that  early  morning  from 
the  country. 

To  go  to  her,  to  tell  her  all,  to  stop  the  indecent 
marriage,  to  cast  himself  at  her  feet,  and  call  upon 
her  pity  for  his  passionate  youth  —  this  impulse  drove 
him;  but  he  could  not  stir  a  step.  A  great  "No" 
bewitched  him.  His  straining  was  against  ropes  of 
steel.  Half -thoughts,  half-inventions  of  every  im- 
possible kind  passed  like  smoke  through  his  mind,  and 
went  away,  and  came  wearily  again.  The  only  one 
of  any  likelihood  was  the  thought  of  kneeling  to  Dib- 
bin, of  telling  him  that  Van  Hupfeldt  was  probably 
Strauss,  and  beseeching  him  for  the  Mordaunts'  sake 
to  give  the  address.  But  he  had  not  the  least  faith 
in  the  success  of  such  a  thing.  To  that  dried  man, 
fossilized  all  through,  incrusted  in  agency,   anything 

168 


The  Diary 

that  implied  a  new  departure,  a  new  point  of  view, 
was  a  thing  impossible.  His  shake  of  the  head  was 
as  stubborn  a  fact  in  nature  as  any  Andes.  There 
was  only  the  diary  left  —  the  diary  might  contain  the 
address ! 

David  did  not  wish  to  open  those  locked  thoughts. 
He  had  hardly  the  right,  but,  after  a  whole  day  spent 
in  eying  the  book,  he  laughed  wildly  and  decided.  It 
was  a  question  of  life,  of  several  lives.  He  put  the 
book  to  his  lips,  with  a  kiss  of  desperation,  inhaling 
its  faded  scent  of  violets. 

At  once  he  rushed  out  with  it  to  a  tradesman  skilled 
in  locks,  and  was  surprised  at  the  ease  with  which 
the  man  shot  back  the  tiny  lever  with  a  bit  of  twisted 
wire. 

"I  can  make  you  a  key  by  the  morning,"  said  the 
man,  squinting  into  the  lock,  and  listening  to  its 
action  as  he  turned  the  wire  in  his  fingers.  "It  is  a 
simple  mechanism  with  two  wards.  Meantime,  here 
it  is,  opened." 

He  refused  even  to  be  paid  for  "so  slight  a  thing." 
David  handed  him  a  cigar  —  and  ran ;  and  was  soon 
deep  in  it.  The  first  passage  thrilled  him  as  with 
solemn  music: 

O  silent  one,  I  must  tell  my  sweets  and  bitters  to  you,  since  I 
mayn't  to  others.  You  will  treasure  each  syllable,  and  speak  of 
me  as  I  am,  "nothing  extenuate  nor  set  down  aught  in  malice." 

But  please,  as  you  are  good,  bring  not  upon  me  any  further  decla- 
mation of  the  unhappy  Moor!  Pray  Heaven  you  may  not  have  to 
record  the  "  unlucky  deeds  "  of  "  one  that  lov'd,  not  wisely,  but  too 

169 


The  Late  Tenant 

well,"  nor  your  pallid  cheeks  reveal  your  grief  because  my  "  sub- 
dued eyes, 

Albeit  unused  to  the  melting  mood, 
Drop  tears  as  fast  as  the  Arabian  trees 
Their  med'cinable  gum ! " 

I  was  married  last  Tuesday.  As  the  carriage  rolled  back  along 
the  sea  front,  and  my  darhng  husband's  arm  clasped  my  waist  as 
tightly  as  a  silver  arm  clasps  you,  Httle  book,  the  old  jingle  came  into 
my  head:  "Monday  for  health,  Tuesday  for  wealth,  Wednesday  the 
best  day  of  all."  The  nasty  things  predicted  for  the  other  days  of 
the  week  do  not  matter  a  jot,  do  they?  Well,  thank  God,  I  am 
healthy  enough,  and  Harry  says  that  we  shall  have  plenty  of  money 
by  and  by.  Given  health  and  wealth,  there  remains  but  happiness, 
and  that  is  of  our  own  contriving.  And  I  am  happy.  Of  that 
there  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt.  Of  course,  I  should  have 
enjoyed  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  marriage  in  the  parish 
church  with  its  joy-bells,  its  laughing  tears,  its  nice  speeches,  while 

the  dear  old  rector  beamed  on  me,  and  the  good  folk  of  R set 

their  eyes  a-goggle  to  see  how  I  looked  and  how  Harry  carried  him- 
self. 

I  flatter  myself  I  should  have  made  a  pretty  bride,  and,  as  for 
Harry,  even  under  the  chilling  influences  of  a  registrar's  office  he 
had  the  air  of  a  man  who  knows  his  own  mind.  How  often,  titter- 
ing at  my  thoughts,  have  I  pictured  my  wedding-day  long  before 
Prince  Charming  hove  in  sight!  And  how  different  it  all  has  been 
to  the  conceits  of  girlhood!  When  he  did  come,  he  hoisted  an  un- 
known flag  and  bore  me  off  like  any  pirate. 

Then  references  to  life  in  a  hotel,  not  named,  and 
the  good-natured  scrutiny  of  strangers  "who  knew  us 
at  once  as  a  newly-married  couple,  though  we  tried 
to  be  offhand  to  each  other." 

Later  she  described  the  beginning  of  housekeeping 
in  London,  "where  all  is  so  strange";  then  a  few 
phrases  which  sighed. 

170 


The  Diary 


I  have  come  to  hate  the  word  "Miss."  It  is  a  constant  reminder 
of  the  compact.  Harry  says  it  will  not  be  long  now  before  om* 
marriage  can  be  proclaimed;  but  meantime  I  always  catch  myself 
smiling  graciously  when  a  shop- walker  hails  me  as  "madam." 
There  is  a  recognition  in  the  word!  "Miss"  is  only  a  trifle  less 
endurable  than  the  "my  dear"  of  the  theater,  which  I  heard  to-day 
for  the  first  time. 

After  some  days  there  was  a  darker  mood: 

It  has  given  me  a  shock  to  find  myself  described  as  "domesti- 
cated." I  came  home  to  an  empty  house,  after  to-day's  rehearsal, 
tired  and  a  bit  peevish,  perhaps.  It  is  so  slow,  this  novitiate.  Harry 
says  that  his  influence  will  quickly  bring  me  to  the  front,  that  I 
must  have  patience,  that  the  theatrical  world  is  so  compact,  yet  so 
split  up  into  cliques,  that,  were  our  relationship  suspected,  I  should 
encounter  hostihty  instead  of  the  indifference  which  I  now  resent. 
So,  in  unamiable  mood,  I  began  to  rate  my  charlady  about  the  dust 
which  gives  its  brown  tone  to  London  interiors.  Thinking  that  a 
display  of  energy  might  prove  a  tonic,  I  cleared  out  the  dining- 
room  and  made  things  shine.  My  help  raised  her  eyebrows  and  a 
duster  in  astonishment.  "Lor',  miss,"  she  said,  "you  are  domesti- 
cated! You  must  have  had  a  good  mother?"  A  good  mother! 
She  didn't  know  how  that  word  felt. 

How  odiously  some  of  the  men  speak,  gaze.  If  a  woman  is 
attractive,  they  ogle  her;  if  she  is  passee,  she  is  less  than  nothing. 
Men  did  not  talk  and  leer  in  that  way  at  R.  Did  they  think  so? 
I  cannot  say.  Even  Harry  laughed  when  I  lost  my  temper  in  de- 
scribing the  impudence  of  a  young  fop  who  had  bought  his  way 
into  the  chorus.  "You  must  get  used  to  that  sort  of  thing  in  town!" 
he  said.  Then:  "Bear  with  it  a  little  while,  sweetheart.  Soon  the 
pretense  will  be  ended,  and  I  shall  be  only  too  happy  if  you  have 
lost  the  glamour  of  the  footlights  by  that  time.  It  was  no  wish  of 
mine  that  you  should  become  an  actress."  That  is  quite,  quite 
true.  But  I  wish  now  —  no,  I  don't.  I  am  silly  and  miserable. 
Please,  diary,  don't  be  angry  if  I  weep  over  you,  and  if  I  write  foolish 
things. 

Then,  some  four  months  after  marriage: 

171 


The  Late  Tenant 

Harry  away  a  whole  week  now.  Telegram  from  Paris:  "Cannot 
leave  Mrs.  S.  for  some  time  yet."  He  is  glad  that  I  have  decided 
to  give  up  the  stage  without  delay.  So  soon,  so  soon!  I  am  glad, 
too,  for  some  reasons,  and  sorry  for  others.  Is  not  that  life  in  a 
few  words?  .  .  . 

Creature  d'un  jour  qui  t'agites  une  heure, 
De  quoi  viens-tu  te  plaindre  et  que  te  fait  gemir? 
Ton  ame  t'inquiete  et  tu  crois  qu'elle  pleura: 
Ton  ame  est  immortelle,  et  tes  pleurs  vont  tarur. 

It  is  strange  that  I  should  regret  the  passing  of  the  stage,  now 
that  it  becomes  a  necessity.  There  I  found  companionship,  of  a 
sort.  I  shall  be  so  lonely.  But  not  for  long.  Harry  returns  next 
week,  "  on  the  10th  "  his  second  message  says,  and  then  I  think  really 
that  I  must  begin  to  insist  upon  seeing  my  mother.  He  can  hardly 
refuse  now.  To  meet  her  again!  though  our  eyes  will  be  flooded 
with  tears.  And  Vi!  dear,  dear  Vi!  Will  she  be  eager  to  hear  all 
about  it.'^  But  the  reproach  in  her  eyes!  What  did  she  think 
when  she  opened  that  letter  of  mine?  How  she  would  weep  over 
her  old  flighty  Gwen!  Oh,  darling  mother,  and  sweet,  ever-for- 
giving sister,  how  I  long  to  hold  you  in  my  arms!  If  Harry  only 
knew  you  he  would  surely  trust  you,  and  then  I  would  not  care  if 
the  publication  of  the  marriage  was  delayed  another  year. 


17a 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN  PAIN 

Hour  after  hour  David  read  on,  dead  to  all  things 
in  the  world  but  to  the  soul  in  pain  in  that  book 
and  to  his  hope  that,  if  only  once,  she  had  written 
the  name  of  her  home.  Every  time  he  came  upon 
that  letter  R  (by  which  she  meant  Rigsworth)  he 
groaned;  and  anon  he  looked  with  eyes  of  despair 
and  something  of  fond  reproach  at  her  face  over  the 
mantelpiece. 

He  read  of  her  leaving  the  stage,  because  of  the 
necessity  that  was  now  upon  her,  and  then  of  the 
months  of  heaviness  and  tears.  The  worst  trial  of 
all  in  her  lot  seemed  to  be  the  constant  separations, 
due  to  the  tyranny  of  one  "  Mrs.  S,'*  who  ever  drew  her 
husband  from  her.     She  wrote: 

I  actually  should  be  jealous,  if  she  wasn't  old!  From  Paris  to 
Homburg,  from  Homburg  to  Siena:  and  everywhere  poor  Harry 
dragged  at  her  chariot-wheels!  I  should  like  to  have  one  peep  at 
her  in  the  flesh,  just  to  see  what  she  is  really  like.  Her  photographs 
show  a  fat,  cross-looking  old  thing,  but  she  can't  be  quite  like  that, 
with  her  really  good  affectionate  heart.  Has  she  not  been  the  best 
of  mothers  to  Harry?  From  the  time  she  adopted  him,  he  says, 
when  he  was  a  quite  poor  boy  of  fifteen,  she  has  never  been  able  to 
live  a  month  without  seeing  him,  even  when  he  was  at  Heidelburg 

173 


The  Late  Tenant 

University.  I  must  be  content  only  to  share  him  with  her,  but 
just  now  I  think  I  have  the  stronger  claim,  unless  she  is  really  so 
very  ill.  I  have  heard  that  tale  before  of  her  "dying  state,"  but 
that  sort  of  old  things  don't  die  so  easily.  I  believe  that  I  write 
as  if  I  wished  her  to !  God  forbid !  I  don't  allow  all  Harry's  dreams 
of  the  grandeurs  to  be  enjoyed  after  her  death  to  excite  me  much. 
I  hope  that  I  shall  take  it  as  coldly  as  doing  up  my  hair  when  the  let- 
ter comes,  "Mrs.  S.  is  dead!  you  are  a  millionaire." 

Mercenariness  is  not  one  of  my  faults,  anyway.  It  is  true  that 
since  I  have  ceased  to  earn  anything,  I  do  sometimes  feel  a  wee 
pinch  of  scarcity,  and  wish  that  he  could  send  me  even  a  few  shill- 
ings a  week  more.  But  if  that  was  only  all  of  my  trouble!  No, 
Mrs.  S.,  may  you  Uve  as  long  as  Heaven  wills.  If  I  thought  that  in 
any  part  of  me  there  lurked  one  little  longing  to  hear  of  that  good 
woman's  death,  I  should  never  forgive  myself.  Still,  I  don't  think 
it  right  of  her  to  play  the  despot  over  Harry  to  the  extent  to  which 
she  carries  it.  A  man  thirty-eight  years  old  has  surely  the  right  to 
marry,  if  he  wishes  to.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  her,  my  marriage  could 
have  been  made  public  from  the  first,  and  all  that  woe  at  R.  would 
have  been  spared.  Harry  says  that  she  hates  the  very  word  "mar- 
riage," and  that  if  she  was  to  get  the  least  scent  of  his  marriage, 
she  would  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling. 

He  has  run  a  risk,  poor  old  Hal,  for  my  sake,  and  if  now  and 
again  he  can't  help  longing  to  be  rich  and  free,  it  is  hard  to  blame 
him.  The  day  he  is  rich  and  free  there  will  be  a  spree,  Gwen! 
It  is  wrong  lo  anticipate  it,  but  see  if  I  don't  make  the  street  of  R. 
glow,  if  not  with  the  wine  of  France,  at  least  with  beer,  and  if  I 
don't  teach  a  certain  staid  Miss  Violet  Mordaunt  how  to  do  the 
high-kick,  girls !  I  wonder  if  all  will  be  over  by  then,  and  if  I  shall 
go  back  to  dear  old  R.  not  only  a  wife  but  a  mother  ? 

Then  again,   a  month  later: 

What  a  thing!  to  be  a  mother!  Sometimes  the  thought  hits  me 
suddenly  between  the  eyes,  and  I  can't  believe  it  is  I  myself  —  that 
same  powerlessness  to  recognize  myself  which  I  had  for  fully  a  week 
after  the  marriage.  But  this  is  greater  still,  to  have  something 
which  will  be  to  me  what  I  have  been  to  my  own  mother.    Gwen, 

174 


In  Pain 

Gwen,  how  exquisitely  droll!  How  one  grows  into  something  else 
quite  different,  without  at  all  noticing  how  and  when!  But  will 
it  never  be  over?  It  is  like  heaving  a  sigh  a  century  long.  Won't 
it  be  nice  to  dance  again,  and  fling  one's  hmbs?  But  meantime, 
such  a  weight  of  care,  strange  fears,  gazings  into  I  don't  know  what 
abyss,  and  never  a  day  without  its  flood  of  tears.  I  want  my  mother. 
It  is  no  good;  I  want  to  go  back  to  where  I  was  born.  I  am  not 
strong  enough  to  bear  this.  But  after  Tuesday's  promise  to  him, 
what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  said  now  that  I  won't  write  until  after,  and 
I  won't  if  God  gives  me  strength. 

For  two  months  there  was  no  entry,  and  then  came 
joy  that  a  son  was  born;  but  from  the  time  of  that 
birth,  the  diary  which  had  before  been  profuse  and 
daily  became  short  and  broken. 

A  deadlock  seemed  to  have  arisen.  "Harry" 
allowed  one  letter  to  be  written  home  to  tell  of  the 
birth;  but  would  not  permit  any  direct  statement  as 
to  the  marriage,  nor  any  meeting,  nor  any  further 
letter,  until  "Mrs.  S.,"  who  was  now  "near  her  end," 
should  be  dead.     She  wrote: 

To-day  is  six  weeks  since  I  have  seen  him,  and  altogether  he  has 
seen  baby  only  twice.  Yesterday's  letter  was  divided  into  "heads," 
like  a  sermon,  giving  the  reason  why  I  may  not  go  to  him  in  Paris, 
why  I  may  not  write  home,  even  without  giving  my  address,  and 
why  he  cannot  come  back  yet.  But  it  is  a  year  now,  and  I  have  a 
mother  and  a  sister.  Thei'e  is  no  certainty  that  Mrs.  S.  may  not 
hve  ten  years  longer;  and  in  last  night's  letter  I  said  that  on  the 
4th  of  July,  one  month  from  now,  if  nothing  has  then  happened  to 
change  the  situation,  I  shall  be  compelled  to  risk  displeasing  him, 
and  I  shall  go  to  R.  That's  crossing  the  Rubicon,  Gwen,  and  I'm 
awfully  frightened  now.  He  will  call  it  defiance,  and  rave,  I  know. 
"Be  bold,  be  bold,  be  not  too  bold."  But,  then,  I  can  always  tame 
the  monster  with  one  Delilah  kiss.     I  think  I  know  my  man,  and 

175 


The  Late  Tenant 

can  conquer  my  conqueror,  and  it  is  time  now  to  begin  to  assert 
myself  a  little.  .  .  . 

Isn't  there  something  queerish  in  his  relation  with  "Mrs.  S"? 
He  stands  in  such  mortal  fear  of  her!  I  don't  think  it  is  quite  pretty 
for  a  man  to  have  such  tremors  for  any  earthly  reason.  One  day  I 
asked  him  why  he  could  not  introduce  me  to  her  as  —  a  friend  ? 
She  might  take  a  fancy  to  me,  I  said,  since  I  am  generally  pop- 
ular. He  looked  quite  frightened  at  the  mere  suggestion  of  such 
a  thing.  .  .  . 

That  last  night,  coming  home  from  the  theater,  he  said  some- 
thing about  "Anna."  I  asked  him  who  Anna  was.  He  said:  "I 
mean  Mrs.  S.,"  looking,  it  seemed  to  me,  rather  put  out.  I  had 
never  heard  him  call  her  Anna  before.  .  .  . 

My  voice  is  certainly  not  what  it  was,  and  not  through  any  want 
of  practise,  I'm  sure.  People  so  hopelessly  worried  as  I  am  at 
present  can't  sing  really  well.  For  the  second  time  yesterday  I 
wrote  that  I  shall  really  go  to  mother  after  the  fourth  of  next  month, 
and  I  mean  it,  I  do  mean  it!  I  owe  something  to  her,  too,  and  to 
myself,  and  I  still  don't  see  what  harm  it  can  do  to  Harry.  Poor 
dear,  he  is  awfully  frightened!  "If  you  persist  in  this  wild  notion, 
you  will  compel  me  to  take  a  step  which  will  be  bitter  to  you  and 
to  myself."  I  don't  know  what  step  he  can  mean.  That's  only 
talk.  I'll  do  it  just  to  see  what  happens,  for  one  oughtn't  to  threaten 
a  woman  with  penalties  which  she  can't  conceive,  or  her  curiosity 
will  lead  her  to  do  the  very  thing.  It  was  an  ill-understood  threat 
that  made  Eve  eat  the  apple,  my  Hal.  "Thou  shalt  surely  die"; 
but,  not  knowing  what  "to  die"  was  like,  she  thought  to  herself: 
"Well,  just  to  see."  There's  no  particularly  "bitter  step"  that 
he  can  take,  and  the  time  is  really  come  for  me  to  assert  myself  a 
little  now.  Men  love  a  woman  better  when  she  is  not  all  milk  and 
honey.  .  .  . 

It  is  near  now,  Vi!  He  has  her  chin,  her  hands,  her  dark  grave 
eyes,  her  very  smile.  I  am  on  the  point  at  last  of  seeing  him  in  her 
arms.  How  will  she  look  ?  What  will  she  think  of  me,  the  httle 
girl  whom  she  used  to  guide  with  her  eye,  beating  her  a  hundred 
miles,  an  old  experienced  mummie  while  she  is  still  a  maid!  I  can 
no  more  resist  it  than  I  could  fly!    I  shall  do  it!    I  am  going  to  do 

176 


In  Pain 

it!  I  told  Harry  that  I  should.  There's  no  danger,  and  I  can't 
resist  it  any  longer.  I  am  just  back  from  P.  He  is  looking  too 
sweet  now  for  anything,  and  can  blow  the  whistle  of  the  rattle.  I 
told  Mrs.  C.  that  in  three  days'  time  I  shall  be  taking  him  from  her 
for  at  least  ten  days,  perhaps  for  good.  Only  three  days!  Sarah 
is  beginning  to  get  things  ready.  .  .  . 

Yes,  it  was  "a  bitter  step"  enough,  poor  Hal!  God  help  you 
and  me,  and  all  the  helpless!  .  .  . 

I  told  poor  Sarah  just  now:  "I  am  not  married.  You  only 
think  that  I  am;  but  I  am  not.  I  have  a  child;  but  I  am  not 
married.  Sarah,  this  is  no  fit  place  for  a  girl  like  you."  She 
thinks  that  I  am  mad,  I  know,  but  I  keep  quite  sane  and  myself. 
I  am  only  sorry  for  poor  old  Hal.  He  loves  me  and  I  loved  him 
when  I  had  a  heart.  .  .  . 

I  thought  of  seeing  the  boy  once  more,  but  I  haven't  the  energy. 
I  don't  seem  to  care.  If  I  should  care,  or  love,  or  hate,  or  eat, 
it  wouldn't  be  so  horrible.  But  I  am  only  a  ghost,  a  sham.  I  am 
really  dead.  My  nature  is  akin  with  the  grave,  and  has  no  appetite 
but  for  that  with  which  it  is  akin.  Well,  I  will  soon  come.  It  shall 
be  to-morrow  night,  just  after  Sarah  is  gone.  But  I  must  rouse 
myself  first  to  do  that  which  is  my  duty.  I  ought,  as  a  friend,  to 
cover  up  poor  Hal's  traces,  and  yet  I  must  be  just  to  the  boy,  too.  He 
ought  to  know  when  he  grows  up  that,  if  his  mother  was  unfortunate, 
she  was  not  abandoned,  and  it  is  my  duty  to  leave  for  him  the  proofs 
of  it.  But  how  to  do  that,  and  at  the  same  time  protect  Harry,  is 
the  question,  for  I  suppose  that  the  police  will  search  the  flat.  It 
is  very  wearisome.     I  doubt  if  my  poor  head  is  too  clear  to-day.  .  .  . 

It  shall  be  like  this:  I'll  hide  the  things  somewhere  where  tJie 
police  won't  readily  find  them.  1 11  invent  a  place.  Then  I  shall 
write  to  Vi,  not  telling  her  what  is  going  to  happen  to  me,  but  telhng 
her  that  if  in  a  few  months'  time  she  will  thoroughly  search  a  cer- 
tain flat  in  London,  she  will  find  what  will  be  good  for  her  and 
mother  and  the  boy.  And  I  shall  give  the  address;  but  I  won't  tell 
her  exactly  where  I  hide  the  things;  for  fear  of  the  police  getting 
hold  of  the  letter  and  arresting  Harry.  And  I  will  post  it  after 
Sarah  is  gone  to-morrow  night,  just  before  I  do  it.  That's  what  I 
shall  do.    I'm  pretty  artful,  my  brain  is  quite  clear  and  calm.     I 

177 


The  Late  Tenant 

don't  know  yet  where  I  shall  hide  the  things;  but  I  shall  find  a  place, 
I  shall  hoodwink  them  all,  and  manage  everything  just  nicely.  Sarah 
thinks  that  I'm  mad,  but  I'm  not.  It  is  she  who  is  raving  mad, 
and  people  who  are  mad  think  that  every  one  is,  except  them- 
selves. 

I'll  hide  the  diary  in  one  place,  the  certificates  in  another,  and 
the  photograph  of  the  boy's  father  in  another.  That's  what  I'll  do. 
Then  I'll  tear  up  all  other  papers  small.  No,  I'll  hide  as  well  the 
letter  in  which  he  says  that  he  is  Mrs.  S's  husband,  and  that  I'm  not 
his  legal  wife;  for  some  day  I  should  like  Vi  to  know  that  I  did  not 
take  my  life  for  nothing,  but  was  murdered  before  I  killed  myself. 
Then  I'll  do  it.  It  isn't  bitter;  it's  sweet.  Death's  a  hole  to  creep 
in  for  shelter  for  one's  poor  head.  Harry  will  be  in  England  in  five 
days'  time,  so  I'll  write  him  a  letter  to  the  Constitutional  to  say 
good-by.  He  loves  me.  He  didn't  mean  to  kill  me.  He  only  told 
me  in  order  to  stop  me  from  going  home.  It  is  such  a  burden  to 
write  to  him,  but  it  is  my  duty  to  give  him  one  last  word  of  comfort, 
and  I  will. 

Then,  when  all  this  world  of  business  is  over  and  done,  I'll  do  it. 
It  isn't  bitter;  it's  sweet.  God,  I  couldn't  face  them!  Forgive  me! 
I  know  that  it  is  wicked;  but  it  is  nice,  is  death.  Things  are  as  they 
are.  One  can't  fight  against  the  ocean.  It  is  sweet  to  close  one's 
eyes,  and  drown.  t 

That  word  "drown"  was  the  last.  David  closed 
the  book  with  a  blackness  in  his  heart  and  brain. 

The  reading  of  it  had  brought  him  only  grief  and 
little  light  for  practical  purposes.  That  "Mrs.  S." 
meant  "Mrs.  Strauss"  he  had  no  doubt,  nor  any 
doubt  that  "Harry"  meant  Henry  Van  Hupfeldt. 
Still,  there  was  no  formal  proof  of  it.  The  name  of 
her  home,  to  learn  which  he  had  dared  to  open  the 
diary,  appeared  only  as  "R."  The  only  pieces  of 
knowledge  which  the  reading  brought  him  were, 
firstly,  that  there  were  a  photograph  and  a  letter  still 

178 


In  Pain 

hidden  in  the  flat  —  certainly,  not  in  any  of  the  pic- 
tures, for  he  had  searched  them  all;  and  secondly 
that  "Harry"  was  a  member  of  the  Constitutional 
Club.  As  for  the  child,  it  was,  or  had  been,  at  "P.," 
in  the  care  of  one  "Mrs.  C." 


179 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HAND  TO  HAND 

The  necessity  that  was  now  strong  upon  David 
was  to  act,  to  fight  for  it.  To  hunt  for  the  still  hidden 
photograph  and  letter  was  far  too  slow  a  task  in  his 
present  mood  of  turbulence  and  desperation.  The 
photograph,  indeed,  would  furnish  certain  proof 
as  to  whether  Strauss  and  Van  Hupfeldt  were  one. 
So  might  the  letter.  But  of  what  use  would  proof 
of  anything  whatever  be,  when  he  was  all  shut  out 
from  access  to  the  Mordaunts  ?  He  thought,  how- 
ever, that  if  he  could  come  within  earshot  and  striking 
distance  of  Van  Hupfeldt,  then  something  might 
result,  he  was  not  clear  what.  He  put  on  his  hat  and 
went  out,  as  grim  a  man  as  any  on  the  streets  of 
London  that  afternoon.  He  did  not  know  where 
Van  Hupfeldt  lived,  but  he  turned  his  steps  toward 
the  Constitutional  Club. 

He  meant  at  least  to  discover  if  Van  Hupfeldt  was 
a  member  there,  and  he  might  discover  more.  But 
he  was  spared  the  pains  of  inquiry,  for  he  was  still  at 
a  distance  of  thirty  yards  from  the  club  when  he  saw 
Van  Hupfeldt  come  out  and  step  into  a  carriage. 

David  cringed  half  under  a  dray,  till  the  carriage 

180 


Hand  to  Hand 

began  to  move,  then  followed  some  way  behind  at  his 
long  trot.  He  thought  now  that  perhaps  he  was  about 
to  track  Van  Hupfeldt  to  his  house. 

The  carriage  drove  straight  to  Baker-St.  Station, 
into  which  Van  Hupfeldt  went,  and  took  a  ticket. 
David,  listening  outside  the  outer  entrance  to  the 
small  booking-office,  could  not  catch  the  name  of  his 
destination,  but  when  Van  Hupfeldt  had  gone  down 
into  the  gloom  and  fume,  David,  half-way  down  the 
flight  of  stairs,  stood  watching.  He  had  no  little 
finesse  in  tracking,  and  ferreting,  and  remaining  in- 
visible, and  when  Van  Hupfeldt  had  taken  his  seat, 
David  was  in  another  compartment  of  the  same  train. 

The  dusk  of  evening  was  thickening  when  their 
train  stopped  at  the  townlet  of  Pangley,  twenty-five 
miles    from    London,  where    Van  Hupfeldt  alighted. 

David  saw  him  well  out  of  the  little  station  before  he 
himself  leaped,  as  the  train  began  to  move.  He  then 
took  the  precaution  to  ascertain  the  times  of  the  next 
up-trains.  There  would  be  one  at  quarter  past  eight 
and  another  at  ten  p.m.  While  he  asked  as  to  the 
trains,  and  paid  the  fare  of  some  excess  charge,  he  kept 
his  eye  on  the  back  of  Van  Hupfeldt,  walking  down 
the  rather  steep  street.  And,  when  it  was  safe,  he 
followed. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  street  they  crossed  a  bridge, 
and  thenceforward  walked  up  a  road  with  heath  on 
both  sides.  David  was  angry  with  his  luck,  for  the 
road  was  straight  and  long,  and  there  was  little  cover 

181 


The  Late  Tenant 

in  the  heath,  where  he  walked  some  distance  from  the 
road.  Once  Van  Hupfeldt  turned,  and  seemed  to 
admire  the  last  traces  of  color  in  the  western  sky, 
whereat  David,  as  if  shot,  dropped  into  gorse  and 
bracken.  He  hoped  that  Van  Hupfeldt,  being  a  man 
of  cities  and  civilization,  was  unconscious  of  him; 
but  he  felt  that  he  in  Van  Hupfeldt's  place  would  have 
known  all,  and  he  had  a  fear.  The  light  was  fast 
failing,  but  he  could  clearly  see  Van  Hupfeldt,  who 
swung  a  parcel  in  his  hand;  and  he  thought  that  if  he 
could  see  Van  Hupfeldt  well,  then  Van  Hupfeldt 
might  have  seen  him  dimly.  Van  Hupfeldt,  however, 
gave  no  sign  of  it. 

David  saw  him  go  into  the  gateway  of  a  pretty 
dwelling,  and  a  big  hearty  countrywoman  ran  out  to 
meet  him,  her  face  beaming  with  good  cheer.  Carry- 
ing a  child  in  her  arms,  she  escorted  Van  Hupfeldt  into 
the  house  with,  it  was  clear,  no  lack  of  welcome,  and, 
when  they  had  disappeared,  David,  vaulting  over  a 
hedge  into  the  orchard,  crept  nearer  the  house  and  hid 
behind  a  shed  in  which  he  saw  a  white  calf.  He 
waited  there  for  a  long  time,  how  long  he  did  not  know, 
for  once,  when  he  peered  at  his  watch,  he  could  see 
nothing.  The  night  had  come  moonless  and  black. 
The  place  where  he  lurked  was  in  the  shadow  of  trees. 

Meantime,  within  the  house.  Van  Hupfeldt  sat  with 
the  child  on  his  knee.  He  was  so  pale  that  Mrs. 
Carter,  the  child's  foster-mother,  asked  if  he  was  well. 
Some  purpose,  some  fear  or  hope,  agitated  him.    Once, 

182 


Hand  to  Hand 

when  the  countrywoman  left  the  room  to  fetch  a  glass 
of  milk,  the  moment  he  was  alone  he  put  down  the 
child,  sped  Hke  a  thief  to  the  grandfather's  clock  tick- 
ing in  its  old  nook  by  the  settee,  opened  it,  put  the 
minute-hand  back  twenty  minutes,  and  was  seated 
again  when  the  milk  came  in. 

These  visits  of  his  to  the  child,  of  which  he  paid 
one  every  week,  always  lasted  half  an  hour.  This 
time  he  stayed  so  much  longer  that  Mrs.  Carter  glanced 
at  the  clock,  only  to  be  taken  aback  by  the  earliness 
of  the  hour. 

"Bless  us!"  she  cried.  "I  thought  it  was  later  'n 
that.  You  still  have  plenty  of  time  to  catch  the  quar- 
ter past  eight,  sir." 

But  Van  Hupfeldt  stood  up,  saying  that  he  would 
go.  Putting  on  his  coat,  he  added:  "Mrs.  Carter,  I 
have  been  followed  from  London  by  a  man  who,  I 
fancy,  will  present  himself  here  presently  when  I  am 
gone.  He  wishes  to  know  more  about  my  affairs 
than  he  has  a  right  to  know.  If  he  comes,  I  have  a 
reason  for  wishing  you  to  receive  him  politely,  and 
to  keep  him  in  talk  as  long  as  he  will  stay.  But,  of 
course,  you  won't  satisfy  his  curiosity  in  anything  that 
concerns  me.  In  particular,  be  very  careful  not  to 
give  him  any  hint  that  my  name  was  Strauss  during 
my  wife's  lifetime." 

"You  may  rely  on  me,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  in  the 
secret  voice  of  an  accomphce. 

"Now,  little  one,  to  bed,"  said  Van  Hupfeldt,  a 

183 


The  Late  Tenant 

thin  and  lanky  figure  in  his  long  overcoat,  as  he  bent 
with  kisses  over  the  boy  in  Mrs.  Carter's  arms. 

Five  minutes  after  he  was  gone  David  was  at  the 
farmhouse  door.:     He,  too,  would  like  a  glass  of  milk. 

"You're  welcome,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Carter. 
"Step  inside." 

His  first  glance  was  at  the  clock,  for  he  did  not 
wish  to  lose  the  quarter  past  eight  train,  since  that 
would  mean  the  losing  of  his  present  chance  of  track- 
ing Van  Hupfeldt  to  his  address.  But  the  clock  re- 
assured him.  He  indolently  took  it  for  granted  that 
it  was  more  or  less  near  the  mark,  and  it  pointed  to 
twenty  minutes  to  eight.  He  would  thus  have  time 
to  strike  up  an  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Carter,  as  a 
preliminary  to  closer  relations  in  the  future. 
And  where  is  baby.^"  he  asked. 
Oh,  you  know  about  him  ? "  said  Mrs.  Carter. 
"He's  in  bed,  to  be  sure." 

"I  saw  him  in  your  arms  as  I  was  passing  up  the 
road  half  an  hour  ago." 

"What,  you  passed  along  here.^  I  didn't  notice 
you." 

"  I  came  up  from  the  station.  Now,  this  is  something 
like  good  milk.  You  have  a  nice  little  farm  here,  too. 
Do  you  manage  it  yourself  .^ " 

"Yes;  my  husband  died  a  twelvemonth  come  May." 

"It  must  be  hard  work  with  baby,   too,   as  well, 
especially  if  you've  got  any  youngsters  of  your  own." 
How  can  you  know  that  this  baby  isn't  my  own  ?  " 

184 


(( 


(( 


(( 


Hand  to  Hand 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  I'm  not  quite  so  much  in  the  dark 
about  things.  Why,  I'm  Hving  in  the  very  flat  which 
its  poor  mother  occupied.  I  know  its  aunt,  I  know 
its  father  —  " 

"Oh,  well,  you  seem  to  know  a  lot.  What  more 
do  you  want?" 

"  I  only  know  the  father  by  sight  —  that  is,  if  he 
was  the  father  who  was  in  here  just  now.  I  take  it 
he  was." 

"Ah,  there,  now,  you're  asking." 

"Oh,  there's  no  secret,  Mrs.  Carter.  Mr.  Johann 
Strauss  is  a  well-known  man." 

"  Is  that  his  name  —  Strauss  ?  Well,  well,  live  and 
learn." 

"That's  his  name,  and  that's  his  writing,  Mrs. 
Carter ! "  —  words  which  David  uttered  almost  with 
a  shout,  as  he  caught  an  envelope  out  of  the  coal  scuttle, 
and  laid  it  on  the  table,  pointing  fixedly  at  it. 

Mrs.  Carter  was  startled  by  his  sudden  vehemence. 
The  envelope  was  one  directed  to  her  in  the  same 
flourishing  writing  which  Dibbin  had  long  since  shown 
David  as  that  of  Strauss. 

"You  are  bound  to  admit,"  said  David,  imperatively, 
"  that  this  envelope  was  directed  to  you  by  the  gentle- 
man who  was  just  here." 

"Well,  so  it  was;  what  of  that.^"  asked  Mrs.  Carter, 
in  a  maze  as  to  what  the  row  was  about. 

"That's  all  right,  then,"  said  David,  quieting  down. 
"I  only  wanted  to  be  sure." 

185 


The  Late  Tenant 

This,  then,  settled  it.  Van  Hupfeldt  was  Strauss. 
David  kept  the  envelope,  sipped  his  milk,  and  for 
some  time  talked  with  Mrs.  Carter  about  her  cows, 
her  fruit,  and  whether  the  white  calf  was  to  be  sold 
or  kept.  When  it  was  ten  minutes  to  eight  by  the  big 
parlor  clock  he  rose  to  go,  said  that  he  hoped  to  see 
baby  next  time,  if  he  might  call  again,  and  shook 
hands.  But  in  going  out,  from  force  of  habit,  he 
glanced  at  his  watch,  and  now  saw  that  it  was  really 
ten  minutes  past  eight. 

"  Great  goodness ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  your  clock  is  all 
wrong ! " 

"  No,  sir  —  "  began  Mrs.  Carter. 

David  was  gone.  He  had  five  minutes  in  which  to 
run  a  good  deal  over  a  mile,  and  he  ran  with  all  his 
speed;  but  some  distance  from  the  station  he  saw  the 
train  steaming  out,  and  pulled  up  short. 

At  that  moment  Van  Hupfeldt  in  the  train  was  think- 
ing: "It  has  worked  well.  He  is  late,  and  there  is  no 
other  train  till  ten  —  an  hour  and  three  quarters.  He 
has  only  a  charwoman.  She  will  not  be  in  the  flat  at 
this  hour.  No  one  will  be  there.  Will  it  be  my  luck 
that  the  diary  is  not  under  lock  and  key  ?  " 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  diary  was  lying  openly  on 
the  dining-room  table  in  the  flat,  caution  of  that  sort 
being  hardly  the  uppermost  quality  in  David's  charac- 
ter. 

David  strolled  about  Pangley,  looked  into  the  tiny 
shop-windows,  dined  on  fruit,  wished  that  he  had  not 

186 


Hand  to  Hand 

been  born  some  new  variety  of  a  fool,  and  found  that 
hour  and  three  quarters  as  long  as  a  week.  Not 
much  given  to  suspicions  of  meanness  and  cunning, 
it  did  not  even  now  come  into  his  head  that  he  was 
where  he  was  by  a  trick.  He  blamed  only  destiny 
for  imposing  upon  him  such  penal  inactivity  in  the 
little  town  that  night  when  a  thousand  spurs  were 
urging  him  to  action.  But  at  last  ten  o'clock  came, 
and  when  he  stepped  into  the  train  he  asked  himself 
why  he  had  been  so  impatient,  since  probably  nothing 
could  be  done  that  evening.  He  reached  London 
before  eleven,  and  drove  home  weary  of  himself  and 
of  his  cares. 

It  was  too  late  then,  he  thought,  to  go  hunting  after 
Van  Hupfeldt.  On  the  morrow  morning  he  would 
again  try  at  the  Constitutional.  Meantime,  he  lit 
himself  a  fire,  and  sat  over  it  brooding,  cudgeling  his 
brains  for  some  plan  of  action.  Then  the  diary  drew 
him.  He  would  re-read  that  tragedy  throughout.  He 
put  out  liis  arm,  half-turning  from  over  the  fire  to  get 
the  book. 

It  was  no  longer  on  the  table. 

He  stood  up  and  stared  at  the  table.  No  diary  was 
there.  Yet  he  seemed  to  remember  —  He  set  to 
work  to  search  the  flat. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  his  work,  a  flood  of  light 
broke  in  upon  him.  He  thought  that,  if  the  letter 
which  he  had  written  to  Violet,  telling  her  that  he  had 
the   diary,    had   already   fallen   into   Van   Hupfeldt's 

187 


The  Late  Tenant 

hands,  then  Van  Hupfeldt  knew  that  he  had  the 
diary;  in  which  case,  it  was  Van  Hupfeldt  who  had 
put  back  the  clock's  hand  in  the  farmhouse  at  Pang- 
ley!  Van  Hupfeldt  knew  all  the  time  that  David  was 
shadowing  him,  had  put  back  the  clock,  and  now 
held  the  diary,  for  which  both  he  and  David  would 
have  given  all  that  they  were  worth,  and  all  is  every- 
thing, whether  ten  pounds  or  a  million. 

"Is  that  it?"  thought  David  to  himself.  "Oh,  is 
that  \i?     All  right,  let  it  be  like  that." 

He  lost  not  two  minutes  in  thought,  but  with  a 
lowering  brow  went  out  into  the  streets,  high-strung, 
liis  fingers  cramped  together. 

An  hour  before  this  he  had  said  to  himself  that  the 
hour  was  too  late  for  action.  Now,  an  hour  later, 
such  a  thought  did  not  occur  to  him  in  the  high  pitch 
of  his  soul.  That  night,  and  not  any  other  night  or 
day,  he  would  have  it  out  with  Van  Hupfeldt. 

He  jumped  into  a  cab,  and  drove  to  the  flat  in  King- 
St.,  Chelsea. 

"But  what  on  earth  can  the  man  mean,"  said  Miss 
L'Estrange,  peeping  through  the  slit  of  her  slightly- 
opened  door,  "coming  to  a  lady's  flat  at  this  hour  of 
the  morning  ?  " 

In  reality  it  was  about  half-past  twelve. 

"No,  it's  no  use  talking,"  said  David,  "you  must 
let  me  in.  I  know  you  have  a  right  good  heart,  and  I 
rely  upon  its  action  when  I  tell  you  that  it  is  a  matter 
of  life  and  death  this  time." 

188 


Hand  to  Hand 

"But  I'm  alone/' 

"So  much  the  better." 

"  Well,  I  like  your  cheek ! " 

"You  like  the  whole  of  me;  so  you  may  as  well  own 
up  to  it,  and  be  done." 

"Rats!  You  only  come  here  when  you  want  some- 
thing done.     It  isn't  me  you  come  to  see." 

"I'll  come  to  see  you  some  other  time.  Just  throw 
something  on,  and  let  me  in." 

"'Throw  something  on,'  indeed!  I'll  throw  some- 
thing on  you,  and  that'll  be  hot  water,  the  next  time 
you  come  bothering  about  at  this  hour.  Oh,  well, 
never  mind;  you're  not  a  bad  sort.     Come  in." 

The  door  opened.  Miss  L'Estrange  fled,  and  David 
went  into  the  drawing-room,  where  he  waited  some 
minutes  till  she  reappeared,  looking  fresh  and  washed 
from  the  night's  stage-paint,  with  something  voluminous 
wrapped  about  her. 

"Now,  what  is  it.^"  said  she.  "Straight  to  the 
point  —  that's  me." 

"You  must  give  me  Strauss's  address,"  said  David. 

"That  I  sha'n't,"  said  she.  "What  do  you  take  me 
for?  I  promised  the  man  that  I  wouldn't.  I  have 
told  you  once  that  he  isn't  a  thousand  miles  from 
Piccadilly,  and  that's  about  all  you'll  get  from  me." 
Good!  I  understand  your  position,"  said  David. 
But  before  you  refuse  out  and  out,  hear  what  I 
have  to  say.  This  man  Strauss  is  a  man  who  induced 
Gwendoline  Barnes,   whom  you  know,   to  leave  her 

189 


it 


The  Late  Tenant 

home,  married  her  while  his  first  wife  was  ahve,  and 
so  caused  her  to  make  away  with  herself.  And  now 
this  same  man,  under  the  name  of  Van  Hupfeldt,  is 
about  to  marry  her  sister,  without  telling  her  that  he 
even  knew  the  girl  whom  he  has  murdered.  I  don't 
know  what  the  sister's  motive  for  marrying  him  is  — 
quite  possibly  there's  some  trick  about  it  —  but  I 
know  that  the  motive  is  not  love.  Now,  just  think  a 
moment,  and  tell  me  if  this  is  fair  to  your  woman's 
mind." 

"  Oh,  that's  how  it  is ! "  exclaimed  Ermyn  L'Estrange. 

"All  the  facts  which  I  have  mentioned  I  know  for 
certain,"  said  David. 

"Then,  that  explains — " 

"  Explains  what  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you;  but  this  is  between  us,  mind.  Some 
time  ago  Strauss  comes  to  me,  and  he  says:  'I  have 
given  your  address  to  a  young  lady  —  a  Miss  Violet 
Mordaunt  —  who  is  about  to  write  you  a  letter  asking 
whether  you  did  or  did  not  find  any  certificates  in  a 
picture  in  the  Eddystone  Mansions  flat;  and  I  want 
you  in  answer  to  deny  to  her  for  my  sake  that  any 
certificates  were  ever  found.' " 

"  And  you  did  ?  "  cried  David  with  deep  reproach. 

"Now,  no  preaching,  or  I  never  tell  you  anything 
again,"  shrilled  Miss  L'Estrange.  "Here's  gratitude 
in  man!  Of  course  I  did!  He  said  it  was  only  an 
innocent  fib  which  could  do  no  harm  to  anybody,  and 
if  you  saw  the  bracelet  I  got  for  it,  my  boy  —  " 

190 


Hand  to  Hand 

"You  wrote  to  say  that  no  certificates  were  ever 
found!" 

"I  did." 

"Then  what  can  she  think  of  me?"  he  cried  with 
a  face  of  pain.     "I  told  her  —  " 

"Ah,  you  are  after  her,  too.^  I  see  now  how  it  is," 
said  Miss  L'Estrange. 

"But  she  might  at  least  have  given  me  a  chance  of 
clearing  myself!"  groaned  David.  "She  might  have 
written  to  me  to  say  that  she  had  found  me  out  in  a  lie." 

Violet  had,  indeed,  promised  herself  the  luxury  of 
writing  one  "  stinging,  crushing,  killing  "  note  to  David 
in  the  event  of  Miss  L'Estrange  proving  him  false. 
And,  in  fact,  not  one  but  many  such  notes  had  been 
written  down  at  Dale  Manor.  But  none  of  them  had 
ever  been  sent  —  her  deep  disdain  had  kept  her  silent. 

"But,"  cried  David,  at  the  spur  of  a  sudden  glad 
thought,  "  since  Miss  Mordaunt  wrote  to  you,  and  you 
to  her,  you  know  her  address,  and  can  give  it  me ! " 

"No,  I  don't  know  her  address,"  answered  Miss 
L'Estrange.  "I  believe  now  that  Strauss  may  have 
been  afraid  that  if  I  knew  it  I  might  give  it  to  you,  so 
he  must  have  prevented  her  from  putting  it  on  her 
letter.  There  was  no  address  on  it,  I  don't  think,  for 
when  I  wrote  back  to  her  I  gave  my  letter  to  Strauss 
to  send." 

"Ah,  he's  a  cautious  beast!"  said  David,  bitterly. 
"  Still  —  I'll  have  him  —  not  to-morrow,  but  to-night. 
Quick,  now  —  his  address." 

191 


The  Late  Tenant 

"Well,  I  promised  not  to  tell  it  to  any  one,"  vowed 
Miss  L'Estrange  in  her  best  soubrette  manner,  "and 
I'll  be  as  good  as  my  word,  since  I  never  break  a 
promise  when  my  word  is  once  passed.  I'll  just  write 
it  down  on  a  piece  of  paper,  and  drop  it  on  the  floor 
by  accident,  and  then  if  anybody  should  happen  to 
notice  it  and  pick  it  up  without  my  seeing,  that  will 
be  no  business  of  mine." 

She  rose,  walked  to  a  desk,  and  went  through  this 
pantomime  in  all  seriousness.  The  address  was 
dropped  on  the  carpet,  and  David  "happening"  to 
notice  it,  picked  it  up  behind  Miss  Ermyn  L'Estrange's 
unconscious  back.  It  had  on  it  the  number  of  a  house 
near  Hanover  Square;  and  in  another  moment  David 
had  pressed  the  lady's  hand,  and  was  gone,  crying: 
"I'll  come  again!" 

"  Not  even  a  word  of  thanks,"  said  Miss  L'Estrange 
to  herself,  as  she  looked  after  his  flying  back :  "  *  Blow, 
blow,  thou  winter's  wind.'  " 

David  leaped  into  liis  waiting  cab,  and  was  off 
across  London. 

Light  was  still  in  Van  Hupfeldt's  quarters,  and  Van 
Hupfeldt  himself,  at  the  moment  when  David  rang, 
was  poring  over  the  last  words  of  the  diary  of  her  who 
had  been  part  of  his  life.  He  was  livid  w^ith  fear  at 
the  knowledge  just  learned  for  certain  from  the  written 
words,  that  there  were  still  hidden  in  the  flat  a  photo- 
graph of  him,  and  his  last  letter  to  Gwendohne,  when 
he  heard  an  altercation  between  his  man  Neil  and 

192 


Hand  to  Hand 

another  voice  outside.  A  moment  later  he  heard  Neil 
cry  out  sharply,  and  then  he  was  aware  of  a  hurried 
step  coming  in  upon  him.  The  first  thought  of  his 
secretive  nature  was  the  diary,  and,  with  the  trepida- 
tions of  a  miser  surprised  in  counting  his  gold,  he 
hustled  it  into  a  secret  recess  of  the  bureau  near  which 
he  had  been  reading.  He  had  hardly  done  this  when 
he  stood  face  to  face  with  David. 

At  that  moment  Van  Hupfeldt's  face  seemed  lit  with 
a  lunacy  of  affright,  surprise,  and  rage.  David,  with 
his  hat  rather  drawn  over  his  eyes,  and  with  a 
frowning  severity,  said :  "  I  want  four  things  of  you  —  the 
diary,  the  key  of  my  flat  which  you  have  in  your  posses- 
sion, those  certificates,  and  Mrs.  Mordaunt's  address." 

A  scream  went  out  from  Van  Hupfeldt:  "Neil!  the 
pohce ! " 

"Quite  so,"  said  David;  "but  before  the  police 
come,  do  as  I  say,  or  I  shall  kill  you." 

Van  Hupfeldt  could  hardly  catch  his  breath  suf- 
ficiently to  speak.  A  man  so  wholly  in  the  grip  of 
terror  it  was  painful  to  see.  David  understood  him 
to  say:  "  Man,  I  warn  you,  my  heart  is  weak." 

"  Heart  weak  ? "  growled  David.  "  That's  what  you 
say  ?  Well,  then,  keep  cool,  and  let  me  have  my  way. 
We  must  wrangle  it  out  now  somehow.  You  have 
the  police  on  your  side  for  the  moment,  and  I  stand 
alone  —  " 

Now  the  outer  door  was  heard  to  slam;  for  Neil  had 
run  out  to  summon  help. 

193 


The  Late  Tenant 

"I'm  not  acting  on  my  own  behalf,"  said  David, 
"but  for  the  sake  of  a  girl  whose  life,  I  feel  sure,  you 
are  going  to  make  bitter.     She  cares  nothing  for  you  —  " 

"How  dare  you!"  came  in  a  hoarseness  of  con- 
centrated passion  from  Van  Hupfeldt's  bosom. 

"  No,  she  cares  nothing  for  you  — " 

"You  interloper!" 

"And  even  if  she  did,  she  is  sure  to  find  out  sooner 
or  later  that  you  are  Strauss  — " 

"  Oh !  had  I  but  guessed ! " 

"Which  would  be  the  death  of  her—" 

"I  never  dreamed  of  this." 

"So,  on  her  behalf,  I'll  just  make  a  hurried  search 
before  the  police  comes.  The  things  are  not  yours. 
If  your  heart  wasn't  weak,  I'd  maul  you  till  you  were 
willing  to  hand  them  over  of  your  own  accord." 

With  that  David  made  a  move  toward  the  bureau, 
whereupon  Van  Hupfeldt  uttered  a  scream  and  flew 
upon  liim  like  a  cat-o'-mountain,  but  David  flung  him 
away  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

Scattered  over  the  bureau  were  a  number  of  letters 
in  their  envelopes  ready  for  the  post,  and  the  first  of 
these  upon  which  David's  eye  fell  was  directed  to 
"Miss  Violet  Mordaunt." 

Here  was  luck!  Even  as  his  heart  bounded,  before 
even  he  had  seen  a  word  of  the  address,  he  was  in 
darkness  —  Van  Hupfeldt  had  switched  off  the  light. 

And  now  once  again  David  felt  himself  outdone  by 
the  cunning  of  this  man.     The  room  was  large,  crowded 

194 


Hand  to  Hand 

with  objects  of  luxury,  and  the  switch  a  needle  in  a 
bundle  of  hay.  In  which  direction  to  grope  for  it 
David  did  not  know.  He  ran  to  where  he  had  flung 
Van  Hupfeldt,  to  compel  him  by  main  force  to  turn 
on  the  light.  But  Van  Hupfeldt  was  no  longer  there. 
The  suddenness  of  the  darkness  made  it  black  to  the 
eyes.  David  could  not  find  the  switch,  and  fearing 
lest  Van  Hupfeldt  might  snatch  away  the  letter  to 
Violet  in  the  dark,  he  flew  back  to  the  bureau,  over- 
setting first  a  chair,  and  then  colliding  upon  Van  Hup- 
feldt a  little  distance  from  the  bureau.  Again  he 
flung  Van  Hupfeldt  far,  and,  keeping  near  the  bureau, 
groped  along  the  beading  of  the  wall,  to  see  if  he  could 
encounter  another  switch. 

In  the  midst  of  this  search,  his  ears  detected  the 
sound  of  a  key  in  the  outer  door,  and  understanding 
that  help  had  arrived  for  the  enemy,  instantly  he  took 
his  decision,  felt  for  the  eight  or  ten  envelopes  on  the 
bureau,  slipped  them  all  into  his  pocket,  and  was  gone. 
In  the  hall,  coming  inward  he  met  Neil  and  an  ofiicer, 
but,  as  if  making  a  deep  bow  to  the  majesty  of  the 
law,  he  slipped  as  easily  as  a  wave  under  the  ofiicer's 
hand,  and  disappeared  through  the  wide-open  door. 
The  officer  ran  after  him.  This  was  simple.  From 
the  moment  when  David  pitched  through  the  house- 
door  below  the  stairs,  he  was  never  more  seen  by  that 
particular  officer  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

Under  a  lamp  in  Oxford-St.,  when  he  stopped  run- 
ning, he  took  out  Strauss's  letters  from  his  pocket  with 

195 


The  Late  Tenant 

a  hand  that  shook,  for  in  his  heart  was  the  thought: 
"Suppose  I  have  left  hers  behind!" 

But  no;  that  fifth  one  was  hers:  "Miss  Violet  Mor- 
daunt,  Dale  Manor,  Rigsworth,  near  Kenilworth." 
Remembrance  came  to  him  with  an  ache  of  rapture. 
Within  twenty-four  hours  he  would  see  her.  He  was 
so  pleased  that  he  was  at  the  pains  to  throw  Strauss's 
other  letters  into  the  first  pillar-box.  What  did  it 
matter  now  that  the  diary,  certificates,  anything  or 
everything,  had  been  filched  from  him  ^  To-morrow, 
no,  that  day,  he  would  see  Violet. 


196 


CHAPTER  XVII 

DAVID  MORE  THAN  REGAINS  LOST  GROUND 

Harcourt  was  now  in  the  position  of  a  man  who 
thinks  he  has  invented  a  flying-machine  —  enthusiasm 
became  stronger  than  knowledge,  behef  was  made  to 
do  service  as  evidence.  To  meet  Violet,  to  look  again 
into  those  sweet  eyes  of  hers,  that  was  the  great  thing 
he  promised  himself  next  morning.  Indeed,  it  is  to  be 
feared  he  deliberately  surrendered  himself  to  dreams 
of  such  a  meeting,  while  he  smoked  pipe  after  pipe  in 
his  lonesome  flat,  rather  than  set  himself  to  an  orderly 
review  of  his  forces  for  the  approaching  trial  of  strength 
with  Van  Hupfeldt. 

No  sooner  was  he  well  clear  of  Van  Hupfeldt's  house 
than  he  knew  that  he  was  safe  from  active  interference 
by  the  law.  The  man  whom  he  now  looked  on  as  his 
rival,  the  subtle  adversary  whom  he  had  scorned  to 
crush  when  appealed  to  for  mercy  on  the  score  of  physi- 
cal inferiority,  would  never  dare  to  seek  the  aid  of 
authority.  Nursing  that  fact,  ready  enough  to  wel- 
come the  prospect  of  an  unaided  combat,  David  did 
not  stop  to  consider  that  an  older  head  in  counsel 
would  not  be  a  bad  thing.  There  was  Dibbin,  for 
instance.     Dibbin,  whose  ideas  were  cramped  within 

197 


The  Late   Tenant 

ledgers  and  schedules,  had,  nevertheless,  as  he  said 
himself,  "been  young  once."  Surely  David  could 
have  sufficiently  oxygenized  the  agent's  thin  blood 
with  the  story  told  by  the  hapless  Gwendoline  that 
the  man  should  hie  with  him  to  Rigsworth  and  there 
be  confronted  with  the  veritable  Strauss.  Dibbin  was 
a  precise  man.  It  would  have  been  hard  for  Van 
Hupfeldt  to  flout  Dibbin. 

But  no;  David  smoked  and  dreamed,  and  saw  a 
living  Violet  in  the  chalk  portrait  of  the  dead  Gwendo- 
line, and  said  so  many  nice  words  to  the  presentment 
thus  created  that  he  came  to  believe  them;  and  so  he 
consigned  Dibbin  to  his  own  musty  office,  nor  even 
gave  heed  to  the  existence  of  such  a  credible  witness 
as  Sarah  Gissing,  poor  Gwendoline's  maid. 

He  left  a  penciled  note  on  his  table  that  the  char- 
woman was  to  call  him  when  she  came  at  eight  —  for 
in  such  wise  does  London  conquer  Wyoming  —  and 
with  the  rattle  of  her  knuckles  on  the  door  he  was  out 
of  bed,  blithe  as  a  lark,  with  his  heart  singing  greetings 
to  a  sunny  morning. 

The  manner  of  dress,  the  shade  of  a  tie,  the  exact 
degree  of  whiteness  of  linen,  were  affairs  of  moment 
just  then.  Alack!  here  was  our  erstwhile  rounder-up 
of  steers  stopping  his  hansom  on  the  way  to  the  station 
in  order  to  buy  a  smart  pair  of  doeskin  gloves,  while  he 
gazed  lovingly  at  a  boutonniere  of  violets,  but  forbore. 

It  was  noon  ere  he  reached  Rigsworth,  and  inquiry 
showed  that  the  Mordaunts'  house  was  situated  at  the 

198 


David  More  Than  Regains  Lost  Ground 

farther  end  of  the  small  village.  He  walked  through 
the  street  of  scattered  houses,  and  attracted  some 
attention  by  the  sure  fact  that  he  was  a  stranger.  At 
any  rate,  that  was  how  he  regarded  the  discreet  scrutiny 
to  which  he  was  subjected. 

"  A  big  house  with  a  lodge-gate,  just  past  the  church 
on  the  left,"  were  the  station-master's  directions,  and 
David  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  his  way.  His  heart 
fell  a  little  when  he  saw  the  style  of  the  place.  The 
lodge  was  a  pretty  villa  in  itself.  Its  garden  would  be 
of  great  worth  within  the  London  suburban  area. 
Behind  it  stretched  the  park  of  Dale  Manor,  and  the 
turrets  of  a  mansion  among  many  lordly  elms  seemed 
to  put  Violet  on  a  somewhat  inaccessible  pinnacle. 
David  did  not  know  that  people  of  moderate  means 
can  maintain  a  good  sporting  estate  by  letting  the 
shooting,  but  he  had  learned  in  the  free  air  of  the 
States  to  rate  a  man  on  a  different  level  to  parks;  if  a 
half-bred  rascal  like  Van  Hupfeldt  was  able  to  enter 
this  citadel  Hke  a  thief  for  one  daughter  of  the  house, 
why  should  not  an  honest  man  storm  it  for  the  sake 
of  another  ^ 

At  the  lodge,  however,  he  met  with  a  decided  rebuff. 
"No  visitors  admitted,"  was  the  curt  response  of  a 
gamekeeper  sort  of  person  who  was  lurking  in  a  door- 
way when  David  tried  to  open  the  locked  gale. 

"My  business  is  important,"  urged  David,  quietly, 
though  his  face  flushed  a  little  at  the  man's  impudent 
manner. 

199 


The  Late  Tenant 

"So's  my  orders,"  said  velveteens. 

"But  I  must  see  either  Mrs.  Mordaunt  or  Miss 
Violet." 

"You  can't  see  either.  Absolute  orders.  Your 
name's  Harcourt    isn't  it?" 

Then  David  knew  that  Van  Hupfeldt  had  over- 
reached him  by  the  telegraph,  and  the  shattering  of 
his  dream-castle  caused  such  lightnings  to  gleam 
from  within  that  the  surly  gamekeeper  whistled  to  a 
retriever  dog,  and  ostensibly  revealed  a  double-barreled 
gun  which  lay  in  the  corner  of  the  porch. 

David  was  likely  to  have  his  own  way  with  clod- 
hoppers, even  in  the  hour  of  tribulation. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "my  name  is  Harcourt.  And 
your  s  r 

"Mine  is  no  matter." 

"  Very  well,  '  No  Matter.'  You  are  obeying  orders,  I 
have  no  doubt;  but  you  must  be  taught  civility.  I 
give  you  notice,  No  Matter,  that  a  little  later  I  shall 
lick  you  good  and  plenty,  and  if  you  don't  take  it  like 
a  man  you  will  probably  be  fired  into  the  bargain." 

The  keeper  was  for  abusing  him,  but  David  turned 
away.  And  now  he  was  not  the  well-dressed,  gloved, 
spick-and-span  Londoner,  but  the  Indian  of  the  prairie, 
with  a  heart  from  which  the  glow  had  gone,  with  eyes 
that  saw  and  ears  that  heard  and  a  brain  that  recorded 
everything. 

He  was  instantly  aware  that  the  country  policeman 
who  had  lolled  through  the  village  behind  him  was  a 

200 


David  More  Than  Regains  Lost  Ground 

forewarned  spy.  He  knew  that  this  functionary 
watched  his  return  to  the  railway  station,  from  which, 
as  David  happened  to  remember,  the  time-table  had 
shown  a  train  London-wards  at  one  o'clock. 

The  station-master  was  affable  enough,  gave  him 
some  bread  and  meat  and  a  glass  of  milk,  and  refused 
any  payment.  When  the  train  came  in,  David,  sourly 
smiling,  saw  the  constable  loll  onto  the  platform.  He 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  lean  out  of  the  car- 
riage window. 

"Good-by,  P.  C.  198,"  he  said. 

Now,  he  was  traveling  first-class,  and,  in  England, 
even  a  villain  demands  respect  under  that  circum- 
stance. 

"  Good-by,  sir,"  said  the  man,  surprised. 

"  You  will  know  me  again,  eh  ?  " 

"Oh  yes,  sir." 

"I  am  glad  of  that.  Tell  that  chap  at  the  gate  of 
Dale  Manor  that  I  shall  keep  my  fixture  with  him 


soon." 


P.  C.  198  scratched  his  head.  "Funny  affair,"  he 
muttered  as  the  train  moved  off.  "Looks  an'  talks 
more  of  a  gentleman  than  van  Wot's-his-name,  any 

day." 

At  the  next  station,  four  miles  away,  David  slipped 
out  of  his  carriage  quickly  and  waited  in  a  shed  until 
the  train  had  gone  again.  Then  he  interviewed  the 
station-master,  and  somewhat  astonished  the  oflficial 
by  tendering  a  return  ticket  from  Rigsworth  to  London. 

201 


The  Late  Tenant 

"  Can't  break  your  journey,"  said   the  regulations. 

"But  I've  done  it,"  said  David. 

"It's  irregular,"  complained  the  other. 

"And  the  train  is  half  a  mile  distant." 

"Well,  if  you  pay  the  fare — " 

David  meant  to  forfeit  his  ticket.  This  was  a  new 
light.  He  paid  a  few  pence,  took  a  receipt,  and 
promised  himself  some  fun  at  Rigsworth. 

He  asked  for  no  information.  From  the  train  he 
had  noted  a  line  of  telegraph  posts  in  the  distance,  and 
he  stepped  out  smartly  along  a  by-road  until  he  gained 
the  main  thoroughfare.  Then,  being  alone,  he  ran, 
and  the  newly  bought  gloves  burst  their  seams,  so  he 
flung  them  off. 

When  less  than  a  mile  from  Rigsworth  he  heard  the 
wliistle  of  a  train.  Springing  to  a  high  bank,  he 
made  out  the  sinuous,  snake-like  curling  of  an  engine 
and  coaches  beyond  the  hedge-rows  —  a  train  coming 
from  London.  "  Van  Hupfeldt  is  in  it,  of  course,"  he 
decided.     "I  must  make  sure." 

It  needed  a  fine  sprint,  aided  by  the  exercise  of  quick 
judgment  when  he  neared  Dale  Manor;  but  he  was 
hidden  in  a  brake  of  brambles  in  the  park  as  Van 
Hupfeldt,  exceedingly  palhd  this  glorious  day  of 
spring,  walked  up  the  drive,  accompanied  by  the 
gamekeeper,  dog  and  gun.  The  dog  came  near  to 
undoing  David;  but  a  rabbit,  already  disturbed,  ran 
out  of  the  thicket,  and  a  sharp  command  from  the 
keeper  brought  the  retriever  to  heel. 

202 


David  More  Than  Regains  Lost  Ground 

Van  Hupfeldt  entered  the  gardens;  the  keeper  made 
off  across  the  park.  Green  and  brown  buds,  almost 
bursting  into  leaf,  were  already  enriching  the  shrubs 
and  trees  of  Dale  Manor,  especially  in  a  sheltered 
hollow  on  the  left  front  of  the  house  where  nestled  a 
pretty  lake.  There  the  cover  was  good.  The  hunter 
instinct  sent  him  that  way. 

"That  Dutchman  will  make  Violet  bolt  just  as  the 
dog  started  the  rabbit,"  thought  David,  and  he  took 
a  circuitous  route  to  reach  a  summer-house  on  the 
most  distant  side  of  the  ornamental  water,  whence, 
he  fancied,  he  could  command  a  fair  view  of  the  house 
and  grounds.  He  waited  with  stubborn  patience  two 
long  hours.  At  last  he  saw  a  man  arrive  in  a  dog-cart, 
and  it  was  the  coming  of  this  person  which  apparently 
drove  Violet  forth,  as,  five  minutes  after  the  newcomer 
was  admitted,  a  tall  graceful  figure  in  black,  a  girl 
wearing  a  large  black  hat  and  draping  a  white  shawl 
elegantly  round  her  shoulders,  stepped  out  of  a  French 
window  to  the  smooth  lawn,  and  looked  straight  at 
the  sheet  of  water  beyond  which  David  lay  ensconced. 

No  need  to  tell  him  who  this  was.  His  heart  did 
not  beat  now.  He  was  glad,  and  something  warmed 
his  whole  body,  for  it  was  chill  waiting  there  in  the 
shade  after  his  run,  but  neither  man  nor  water  could 
interpose  further  barrier  between  him  and  his  Violet, 
so  he  was  calm  and  confident. 

The  girl  glanced  back  once  toward  the  room  she 
had  quitted,  and  then  strolled  on,  ever  coming  nearer 

203 


The  Later  Tenant 

the  glistening  lake  and  the  summer-house.  She 
crossed  the  fine  stretch  of  turf  and  stood  for  an  instant 
near  a  marble  statue  which  guarded  a  fountain.  The 
distance  was  not  great,  and  David  thought  his  eyes 
were  deceiving  him  when  he  saw  that  the  white  marble 
and  the  black-garbed  girl  were  singularly  alike  in 
feature.  It  was  not  surprising,  since  the  sculptor  had 
taken  Violet's  great-grandmother,  a  noted  beauty  of 
early  Georgian  days,  as  his  model  for  the  face  of  the 
dryad,  and  it  was  one  of  the  honored  traditions  of 
Dale  Manor  that  this  figure  should  be  promptly 
shielded  from  inclement  weather,  even  from  the 
dew.  Just  then  David  was  not  inclined  to  cavil  at 
any  discovery  of  fresh  charms  in  Violet,  but  he  set 
aside  this  fanciful  idea,  as  he  deemed  it,  and  bent  his 
mind  on  attracting  her  attention  without  causing  a 
flutter  either  to  her  or  to  the  other  occupants  of  the 
house. 

But  she  came  on  again,  reached  the  lake-side  path, 
and  made  him  hope  for  a  moment  that  she  would  pass 
by  the  door  of  his  retreat.  If  that  was  so,  he  would 
reveal  himself  to  her  soon  enough  to  save  her  from 
being  unduly  alarmed  by  the  unexpected  apparition  of 
a  man  in  that  secluded  place. 

Now  she  actually  passed  abreast  of  him,  with 
the  lake  between,  and  soon  she  would  round  the 
curve  of  the  water  and  face  him  again.  Her  fig- 
ure was  mirrored  in  the  silver  and  blue  of  the  re- 
flected  sky.     So    light  was  her  step  that  the  living, 

204 


David  More  Than  Regains  Lost  Ground 

moving  body  seemed  to  be  as  impalpable  as  its  spirit 
image. 

Then  David's  heart  did  jump  of  a  sudden,  for  a 
faint  hail  of  "Vi!"  twice  repeated,  caught  his  ears, 
and  he  saw  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  outside  the  French  window, 
calling  to  her  daughter. 

The  girl  turned,  facing  David,  almost.  He  made 
up  his  mind  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"Violet,"  he  said,  softly  but  clearly,  "Violet,  don't 
go!  Come  here.  It  is  I,  David."  The  cheek  of  him! 
as  Miss  Erymn  L'Estrange  would  have  put  it.  Violet! 
David !   What  next  ? 

Violet  was  bewitched  for  a  second  or  two.  She 
looked  wildly  toward  the  house,  and  at  him;  for  he 
stood  so  that  she  might  see  him  plainly,  though  to  her 
mother  he  was  invisible. 

"Please  come!"  he  pleaded.  "I  am  here  for  your 
sake,  for  Gwen's  sake,  too,  and  they  have  kept  us  apart 
so  long  by  lies!" 

That  the  girl  was  greatly  excited  was  obvious.  She 
pressed  her  hands  together  on  her  bosom,  though  the 
action  might  pass  as  a  simple  adjustment  of  her  shawl. 
"I  must  go,"  she  murmured  brokenly.  "They  want 
me  there  to  —  to  sign  some  documents.  And  I  can- 
not meet  you." 

"Violet,  sign  nothing  until  you  have  heard  my 
story.  I  appeal  to  you  for  a  hearing.  If  you  refuse 
I  shall  come  with  you  to  the  house.  But  hear  me 
first.     Make  some  excuse." 

205 


The  Late  Tenant 

There  was  ever  that  in  David's  voice  which  won 
belief.  Some  men  ring  true,  some  false.  David  had 
in  him  the  clear  sound  of  metal  without  flaw. 

And  no  woman  is  worth  her  salt  who  cannot  act 
more  than  a  little.  "  Give  me  ten  minutes,  mother,'* 
shrilled  Violet,  excitedly.  "Only  ten  minutes;  then  I 
shall  be  with  you." 

David,  peeping  through  the  rustic  timber-work, 
noted  with  satisfaction  that  Mrs.  Mordaunt  waved  a 
hand  of  agreement  and  reentered  the  house.  What 
then,  of  devil's  work  was  Van  Hupfeldt  plotting  in 
that  drawing-room  that  Violet  should  be  wanted  to 
sign  documents,  and  that  the  girl's  mother  should 
recognize  the  need  of  her  daughter  being  allowed  some 
few  minutes  of  grace  if  she  so  desired  ? 

But  here  came  Violet,  all  rosy  now  with  wonder, 
for  her  blood  was  racing,  though  in  her  eyes,  which 
reflected  her  thoughts,  was  an  anger  which  David 
missed  in  his  joy.  She  stood  framed  in  the  narrow 
doorway  of  the  summer-house,  and  half  turned  as 
though  to  leave  it  quickly.  "Now,  what  have  you  to 
say  to  me 't "  she  breathed  hurriedly. 

David,  who  thought  he  was  shy  with  women,  soon 
found  winged  words  to  pierce  the  armor  of  a  disdain 
he  did  not  yet  understand.  "If  I  obeyed  my  heart, 
Violet,"  he  said,  and  she  thrilled  a  little  under  the 
shock  of  hearing  her  Christian  name  so  glib  on  his  lips, 
"I  would  begin  by  telling  you  that  I  love  you,  and  so 
throw  to  the  winds  all  other  considerations." 

206 


David  More  Than  Regains  Lost  Ground 

She  turned  and  faced  him,  palpitating,  with  a  cer- 
tain  deer-Kke   readiness   to   fly.     "  How   dare   you  ? " 

"I  am  not  daring.  Daring  springs  from  the  heart, 
you  know.  Moreover,  though  the  knowledge  of  my 
love  is  old  to  me,  old  as  weary  days  and  sleepless  nights 
can  make  it,  it  may  be  new  to  you,  unless,  somehow, 
my  love  has  bridged  the  void,  and  made  you  responsive 
to  my  passion.  Ah,  don't  be  afraid,  now,"  for  David 
thought  she  shrank  from  him  —  though  in  very  truth 
this  maiden's  soul  was  all  a-quiver  with  the  conviction 
that  not  so  had  Van  Hupfeldt  spoken,  not  so  had  his 
ardor  shaken  her.  "I  am  not  here  to-day  as  your 
lover,  as  your  avowed  lover  I  would  rather  say,  but 
only  as  your  self-appointed  guardian,  as  one  who 
would  save  you  from  a  fate  worse  than  death.  Listen 
now,  and  believe  me,  for  I  can  prove  the  truth.  Van 
Hupfeldt,  who  would  marry  you,  is  none  other  than 
Strauss,  the  man  who  married  your  sister." 

Violet's  eyes  dilated.  Her  lips  parted  as  if  to  utter 
a  shriek.  David  caught  her  by  the  wrist  and  drew 
her  gently  toward  him.  Before  either  of  them  knew 
what  was  happening,  his  arms  were  about  her. 

"  Be  brave,  there's  a  dear  girl ! "  he  whispered.  *'  Be 
brave  and  silent!  Can  you  listen.^  Tell  me  you  are 
not  afraid  to  listen." 

Again  Violet  was  conscious  that  the  touch  of  David 
Harcourt's  arms  was  a  different  thing  to  the  impetuous 
embrace  of  Van  Hupfeldt.  A  sob  came  from  her. 
She  seemed  to  lose  a  little  of  her  fine  stature.     She 

207 


The  Late  Tenant 

was  becoming  smaller,  more  timidly  womanlike,  so 
near  this  masterful  man. 

"He  married  your  sister,"  went  on  David.  "He 
married  Gwen  in  his  own  name  of  Van  Hupfeldt,  and 
the  birth  of  their  child  is  registered  in  that  name.  I 
wrote  and  told  you  of  the  certificates  being  in  existence. 
He  obtained  them  by  bribery  and  a  trick.  That  is 
nothing.  Even  if  they  are  destroyed,  they  can  be 
replaced  by  the  proper  authorities.  I  know  where  the 
child  is  living.  I  can  take  you  to  it.  I  can  bring 
Dibbin,  the  agent,  here,  to  face  Van  Hupfeldt  and 
prove  that  he  is  none  other  than  Strauss,  your  sister's 
husband  and  slayer.  I  can  bring  Sarah  Gissing, 
your  sister's  servant,  to  identify  him  as  the  man  whom 
poor  Gwen  loved  as  her  husband  and  the  father  of  her 
child.  Were  it  not  for  my  own  folly,  I  could  have 
brought  you  her  diary  — " 

"Her  diary!  Has  it  been  found .^"  gasped  Violet, 
lifting  up  her  eyes  to  his  in  sheer  amazement. 

"  Yes.     I  found  it." 

"But  where,  and  how.?" 

"  It  was  fastened  into  the  back  of  a  picture,  a  mezzo- 
tint of  Turner's." 

"In  the  back  of  a  picture!"  she  murmured,  with  a 
certain  strange  dejection  which  David  found  adorable; 
nor  should  it  be  forgotten  that  the  only  time  David 
possessed  absolute  and  undeniable  evidence  of  the 
presence  of  some  unseen  person  in  his  flat,  he  had  shot 
at  and  wounded  a  man. 

208 


David  More  Than  Regains  Lost  Ground 


"  Yes,  dear  —  may  I  call  you  dear  ?  " 

"And  you  have  it ? " 

"No." 

"No!"  He  felt  a  spasm  of  doubt  in  her  very 
shoulders,  a  slight  withdrawing  from  him,  for  Violet 
was  ever  being  denied  proof,  the  actual,  tangible  proof 
which  alone  can  banish  suspicion  from  a  sorely-tried 
nature. 

"Van  Hupfeldt  stole  it  from  the  flat  during  my 
absence." 

"How  could  that  be?" 

"He  has  duplicate  keys,  I  suppose.  Once  before 
I  have  reason  to  believe  he  was  there.  We  struggled 
together,  one  on  each  side  of  a  door.  It  was  in  the 
dark,  and  he  managed  to  dodge  past  me,  but  I  fired  at 
him  and  drew  blood,  I  think." 

"When  was  that.^"  she  demanded  with  a  quickness 
which  did  not  escape  him. 

"On  the  morning  of  the  day  you  were  to  have  met 
me  at  the  cemeterv,  but  sent  such  a  bitter  little  note 
instead." 

"A  bitter  little  note!" 

And  thus  were  the  words  said  which,  pursued  for 
another  sentence,  must  have  unmasked  Van  Hupfeldt 
wholly;  but  they  were  both  so  excited,  so  carried  out 
of  all  bounds  of  reasoned  thought,  that  Violet  flew  off 
at  a  tangent,  and  David  doubled  after  her,  so  delight- 
ful was  it  to  hear  the  words  coming  from  her  lips,  to 
watch  her  eyes  telegraph  their  secret  meanings. 

209 


The  Late  Tenant 

"He  was  lame  that  day,"  she  whispered.  "He  is 
not  quite  free  from  stiffness  in  his  walk  yet." 

"  Ah !  I  hit  him  then  ? "  And  David  smiled  a 
different  kind  of  smile  to  that  which  Violet  was  learn- 
ing to  like. 

"  But  if  all  that  you  say  is  true,  the  man  is  a  monster," 
she  cried  in  a  sudden  rage. 

"  I  am  coming  to  think  that  he  is  not  in  his  right 
mind,"  said  David,  a  surprising  charity  springing  up 
in  him. 

"  And  do  you  know  what  they  are  waiting  for  now  ?  " 
she  asked  vehemently. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  save  that  it  is  for  you." 

"  They  want  me  to  sign  a  marriage  settlement.  Oh, 
what  a  vile  world ! " 

"Not  a  vile  world,  dear;  nor  are  its  humans  alto- 
gether bad.  Even  this  Van  Hupfeldt,  or  Strauss, 
seems  to  have  loved  your  sister.  And  she  did  love  him. 
Poor  girl!  She  meant  to  kill  herself  on  his  account, 
owing  to  some  secret  he  revealed  to  her,  something 
about  another  woman  who  had  adopted  him  as  her 
son.  That  was  not  clear  in  her  story.  She  purposely 
kept  the  definite  things  out  of  her  diary." 

The  girl's  mind  was  driven  back,  with  quick  re- 
bound, to  the  memory  of  her  sister's  fate.  The  mere 
mention  of  the  name  of  Strauss  touched  a  poignant 
chord.  Strauss  was  a  blacker,  more  Satanic  creature 
in  her  imagination  than  Van  Hupfeldt.  She  wrenched 
herself  free  and  sprang  toward  the  door. 

210 


David  More  Than  Regains  Lost  Ground 

"Do  you  swear  that  you  are  telling  me  the  truth?" 
she  cried. 

"I  swear  it." 

"Then  I  go  now  to  meet  him,  and  his  lawyer,  and 
my  mother.     Poor  mother!     How  she  will  suffer!" 

*'  Shall  I  come  with  you  ?  " 

She  blushed.  She  began  to  remember,  more  vividly 
each  instant,  how  long  she  had  been  there  in  his  arms, 
almost  clinging  to  him. 

"Better  not,"  she  said.  "I  shall  drive  him  away, 
and  when  mother  and  I  have  cried  together  we  shall 
see  you.     Are  you  staying  in  the  village.^" 

"Yes.     At  the  inn,  the  Feathers  I  think  it  is  called." 

"Then  I  shall  send  for  you  to-night,  or  perhaps  to- 
morrow morning." 

"Make  it  to-night,  if  possible.  Tell  your  mother 
I  will  not  add  to  her  sorrows,  and  it  is  best  she  should 
know  all." 

Good-by,  then,  Violet." 
Good-by,  David." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  so  frankly  that  she  placed  her 
white  fingers  within  the  grasp  of  his  strong  ones.  He 
was  tempted  to  draw  her  nearer,  but  her  color  rose 
again,  her  eyes  dropped,  and  she  tore  herself  away, 
breaking  almost  into  a  run. 

David,  careless  whether  he  was  seen  or  not,  walked 
off  towards  the  lodge,  glancing  every  now  and  then 
over  his  shoulder  to  watch  Violet  hastening  to  the  house. 
Once,  when  crossing  the  lawn,  she  looked  around  and 

211 


a 


(( 


The  Late  Tenant 

waved  a  hand  to  him.  He  replied.  Then  she  van- 
ished, and  David  walked  on,  the  happiest  man  in 
England. 

What  a  pity  it  is  that  ignorance  should  so  often  be 
an  essential  part  of  bliss.  David  should  either  have 
gone  with  Violet,  or,  failing  that,  he  should  have  let 
Van  Hupfeldt  believe  that  he  was  well  on  his  way  to 
London.  As  it  was,  Van  Hupfeldt  saw  him  crossing 
the  park,  and  such  a  man  forewarned  is  forearmed. 


212 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FROM  THE  DEPTHS 

Violet  entered  the  drawing-room  with  the  air  of 
one  who  rejoices  in  good  news.  Consider  that  she 
had  just  learned  the  certainty  of  her  sister's  fair  fame, 
and  that,  in  the  same  breath,  she  was  freed  from  Van 
Hupf eldt's  pestering :  was  it  to  be  wondered  at  if,  since 
the  dread  day  she  received  a  letter  from  a  loved  one 
already  dead,  she  had  never  once  looked  so  light- 
hearted,  so  full  of  the  wine  of  life,  as  when  she  danced 
into  the  house  after  her  interview  with  David.  And 
this  quickening  of  her  pulses  boded  no  good  to  Van 
Hupfeldt. 

A  lawyer-like  man  was  arranging  parchments  on  a 
table  —  a  large,  square  table  which  had  evidently 
been  brought  from  a  library  for  the  purpose,  as  the 
day  was  chill  indoors  and  the  drawing-room  was  cozy 
with  a  log  fire.  Van  Hupfeldt,  who  had  turned  from 
the  window  before  Violet  appeared,  affected  to  be 
examining  the  great  red  seals  on  the  green  ribbons 
laced  into  the  vellum.  That  weak  heart  of  his  was 
knocking  hard  at  his  ribs;  but  his  lips  were  tight  set: 
he  was  fighting  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  for  that 
interloper,   David   Harcourt,   must   have   told    Violet 

213 


The  Late  Tenant 

everything.  So,  really,  Van  Hupfeldt  deserved  some 
consideration  for  his  splendid  nonchalance. 

Mrs.  Mordaunt  sat  in  an  easy-chair,  stroking  her 
toy  Pom.  She  was  anxious  for  these  preliminaries  to 
be  done  with.  Dale  Manor  was  an  expensive  place  to 
keep  up;  Van  Hupfeldt's  millions  would  restore  the 
Falerian  order.  So  she  hailed  her  daughter  pleasantly, 
after  one  critical  glance. 

"Your  little  walk  did,  indeed,  bring  out  the  roses, 
Vi.  But  you  were  rather  beyond  the  ten  minutes, 
and  Mr.  Sharpe  is  a  business  man,  dear;  we  must  not 
detain  him  unduly." 

Mr.  Sharpe  coughed  with  deference.  He  was  open 
to  be  detained  or  retained  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  at  the 
price  fer  diem. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Violet,  softly,  giving  Van  Hupfeldt  a 
queer  look  which  he  alone  understood.  "There  are 
things  to  be  signed,  something  about  some  one  of  the 
first  part  and  some  other  person  of  the  second  part. 
Why  do  you  use  such  odd  terms,  Mr.  Sharpe  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  jargon  of  the  law.  Miss  Mordaunt.  Every 
line  adds  a  mite  to  the  small  incomes  of  us  poor 
lawyers." 

"But  who  are  these  people?" 

Sharpe  looked  puzzled.  "  The  first  deed  recites  the 
marriage  contract  between  you  and  Mr.  Van  Hup- 
feldt," he  began  to  explain. 

But  Violet  said,  and  her  words  had  the  cold  clink  of 
ice  in  a  glass :  "  Who  is  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt  ?  " 

214 


From  the  Veptfis 

"Vi!"     This  from  Mrs.  Mordaunt. 

"Mother,  better  not  interfere.  You  don't  seem  to 
understand,  Mr.  Sharpe.  You  spoke  of  a  Mr.  Henry 
Van  Hupf eldt.     Who  is  he  ?  " 

The  lawyer,  smirking  at  the  hidden  joke,  pointed 
to  the  man  standing  by  the  table.  "Of  course,  that 
is  he,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  no.  That  is  Johann  Strauss,  the  man  who 
married  and,  it  may  be  found,  killed  my  sister.  You 
must  look  further  into  your  papers,  Mr.  Sharpe. 
There  is  some  terrible  mistake.  Perhaps,  if  you  went 
on  your  knees  and  prayed  to  God  for  guidance  in  your 
work,  it  might  be  better!" 

"Vi!"  shrieked  her  mother  again,  and  the  dog  in 
her  lap  sprang  off  in  alarm. 

The  solicitor  stood  dumfounded,  still  thinking  that 
some  bizarre  piece  of  humor  was  toward. 

It  was  Van  Hupfeldt  who  saved  Mrs.  Mordaunt 
from  imminent  hysteria.  "Violet  has  been  talking  to 
that  fellow  Harcourt,  of  whom  I  told  you,"  he  said 
coolly.  "She  is,  unfortunately,  only  too  ready  to  be- 
lieve him,  and  a  further  wall  of  distrust  is  built  between 
us  at  a  most  inopportune  moment.  I  am  sorry,  Mrs. 
Mordaunt;  it  is  not  my  fault.  And  I  would  have 
saved  you  from  this,  Violet.  I  knew  he  had  left 
London,  so  I  wired  precautions.  But  he  is  a  scamp 
of  unparalleled  audacity  and  resource.  Surely  you 
have  given  him  no  money  ? " 

Violet,  scarce  trusting  her  ears,  listened  to  the  calm, 

215 


The  Late  Tenant 

smooth  sentences  with  rising  indignation.  But  she 
mastered  herself  sufficiently  to  say:  *'He  has  told 
me  everything  —  about  the  certificates,  the  diary,  all. 
The  time  of  lies  has  passed.  Did  you,  then,  kill  my 
sister  ?  " 

"Why  condense  the  tale?  Of  course  he  assured 
you  that  Dibbin,  the  agent  who  let  the  flat  to  your 
sister's  husband,  will  readily  identify  me  as  Strauss; 
that  Sarah  Gissing,  her  servant,  will  hail  me  as  her 
former  master  .p" 

"Yes.     He  did  say  that." 

"  Why  did  he  not  bring  them  here  ?  " 

"He  will  bring  them  to-morrow." 

Van  Hupfeldt  smiled  wearily.  It  seemed  as  though 
he  could  not  help  himself.  "Forgive  me,  Violet," 
he  said.  "  It  is  I  who  will  bring  them  —  not  Har- 
court.  He  dare  not.  His  bubble  bursts  the  moment 
you  ask  for  proof.  Indeed,  I  am  beginning  to  think 
the  man  is  mad.  He  must  have  conceived  an  insane 
affection  for  you,  and  you  are  committing  a  great 
wrong  in  giving  him  these  clandestine  meetings." 

This  was  too  much.  Violet  advanced  toward  him 
with  eyes  aflame.  "There  were  days  in  the  history 
of  the  world  when  men  were  struck  dead  from  Heaven ! " 
she  cried. 

"That  is  yet  possible,"  he  answered  with  a  strange 
humility. 

Do  you  deny  all,  all  ?  "  she  almost  screamed. 

Not  only  do  I  deny,  but  I  affirm,  and  I  have  my 

216 


(( 


i( 


From  the  Depths 

proofs.  I  have  known  for  some  time,  not  very  long,  it 
is  true,  that  a  man  named  Johann  Strauss  did  assume 
my  name  when  he  married  your  sister.  There  is 
nothing  remarkable  in  that.  I  am  a  rich  man,  known 
to  many.  The  adoption  of  a  pseudonym  is  a  common 
device  of  actors.  There  was  no  real  resemblance  be- 
tween this  person  Strauss  and  myself.  Of  that  fact 
those  who  were  well  acquainted  with  him  —  Dibbin 
and  Sarah  Gissing  —  will  assure  you  to-morrow  in 
this  house.  I  have  your  sister's  marriage  certificate, 
and  the  birth  registration  of  her  child.  I  know  where 
the  child  is.  I  will  bring  the  foster-mother  to  tell  you 
that  I  was  not  the  man  who  intrusted  the  infant  to  her 
care.  I  have  your  sister's  diary,  which  this  Harcourt 
did  really  secure.  I  got  it  from  him  by  a  trick,  1  ad- 
mit, but  only  to  save  you  from  becoming  his  dupe. 
Now  I  have  placed  all  my  cards  on  the  table,  by  the 
side  of  your  marriage  settlement.  Can  David  Har- 
court do  as  much?" 

The  girl's  lips  quivered  a  little.  What  was  she  to 
believe.^  In  whom  was  she  to  trust.''  She  wanted  to 
cry,  but  she  dug  her  nails  into  her  white  hands;  for  the 
encircling  clasp  of  David's  arms  still  tingled  on  her 
shoulders.  *'AMiy  do  you  tell  me  all  this  only  when  I 
force  it  from  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"You  answer  your  own  question.  You  force  it 
from  me.  Exactly  I  would  prefer  that  my  promised 
wife  should  have  trust  in  me.  I  wished  to  spare  you 
certain  sordid  revelations;  but  because  some  American 

217 


The  Late  Tenant 

* 

adventurer  happens  upon  a  family  tragedy  and  uses 
it  for  his  own  purposes  —  whether  base  or  not  I  do  not 
stop  to  inquire  —  you  treat  me  as  the  one  quite  un- 
worthy of  behef.  Violet,  you  hurt  me  more  than  you 
know."  The  man's  voice  broke.  Tears  stood  in  his 
eyes. 

The  girl  was  nearly  distraught  under  the  stress  of 
the  struggle  going  on  with  her.  "Henry  Van  Hup- 
feldt,"  she  said  solemnly,  looking  him  straight  in  the 
face,  "  may  the  Lord  judge  between  me  and  you  if  I 
have  wronged  you ! " 

"No,  sweet  girl,  you  cannot  wrong  me;  for  my  con- 
science is  clear,  but  it  is  a  hard  thing  that  you  should 
incline  rather  to  this  blackmailer  than  to  me." 

"Blackmailer!"  The  ugly  word  came  from  her 
lips  in  sheer  protest;  the  lash  of  a  whip  could  not  have 
stung  as  cruelly. 

"Yes,  most  certainly.  Did  he  not  demand  a  hun- 
dred pounds  from  you  .^  Let  me  go  to  him  and  offer 
five  hundred,  and  you  will  never  see  or  hear  of  him 
again." 

"  Oh,  if  that  is  so,  there  is  no  faith  or  honesty  in  the 
world." 

"  Is  lie  your  world,  then  .^ "  demanded  Van  Hup- 
feldt,  bitterly,  and  even  Mrs.  Mordaunt  broke  in  with 
her  moan: 

"  Oh,  Vi ! " 

"Let  us  end  this  distressing  scene,"  went  on  Van 
Hupfeldt  with  a  repressed  indignation   that  was  ex- 

218 


From  the  Depths 

ceedingly  convincing.  "Mr.  Sharpe,  you  see,  of 
course,  that  Miss  Mordaunt  cannot  be  expected  to 
complete  these  agreements  to-day.  Please  be  here 
to-morrow  at  the  same  time.  Before  that  hour  I 
shall  be  back  from  London  with  all  the  witnesses  and 
documents  which  shall  prove  to  Miss  Mordaunt's 
complete  satisfaction  that  she  has  been  grossly  misled 
by  a  cleverly  concocted  story.  Indeed,  I  would  be 
glad  if,  subsequently,  you  interviewed  this  David 
Harcourt.  It  seems  to  me  almost  credible  now  that 
he  himself  believed  the  extraordinary  tale  he  has 
made  up." 

"Whatever  you  please  shall  be  done,  sir,"  said  the 
lawyer.  "  And  may  I  add,  for  the  benefit  of  these  two 
ladies,  that  —  er  —  my  own  knowledge  of  your  posi- 
tion and  —  er  —  career  completely  excludes  such  a 
preposterous  —  er  —  " 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Sharpe,"  broke  in  Van  Hupfeldt. 
"You  mean  that  kindly,  I  know;  but  this  is  a  matter 
between  Miss  Mordaunt  and  mvself  at  the  moment." 

t/ 

The  solicitor  gathered  up  his  papers  and  withdrew. 
For  a  little  while  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room  except 
the  mother's  sobbing  and  the  daughter's  labored 
breathing;  for  unhappy  Violet  w^as  so  torn  with  doubt 
that  her  breast  appeared  to  be  unable  to  harbor  its 
agitation.  A  few  minutes  ago  she  deemed  herself 
free  from  a  compact  hateful  to  her  soul;  yet,  here  was 
Van  Hupfeldt  more  convincing,  more  compelling,  than 
ever.     To  her  terrified  eyes  the  man  assumed  the  shape 

219 


The  Late  Tenant 

and  properties  of  a  python,  a  monstrous  snake  from 
which  there  was  no  escape. 

And  then  the  sibilant  hiss  of  his  voice  reached  her 
dulled  ears.  "Mrs.  Mordaunt,  may  I  appeal  to  your 
authority.^  Surely  this  Harcourt  will  not  be  admitted 
here  in  my  absence  .^  I  do  not  ask  much,  only  a  respite 
of  twenty-four  hours.  Then  I  return,  with  all  the 
proofs." 

"Why  have  they  been  withheld  so  long.?"  came 
Violet's  agonized  protest. 

"I  do  declare,  Vi,"  broke  in  her  mother,  "that  you 
would  try  the  patience  of  Job!  Have  you  lost  all 
your  fine  sense  of  honor  and  fairness  ?  What  more 
can  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt  do  to  please  you  ^  And  where 
do  you  meet  tliis  young  man  who  so  unwarrantably 
thrusts  himself  into  our  affairs,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

Poor  Violet  knew  that  the  British  matron  instinct 
was  fighting  against  her  now.  And  there  never  was 
a  girl  more  bound  up  in  her  family  ties  than  this  one. 
"Forgive  me,  mother,"  she  said  wearily.  "The  long 
struggle  is  at  an  end,  now.  Let  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt 
keep  his  promise,  and  I  shall  not  cause  further  diffi- 
culty." 

"Well  said!"  cried  Van  Hupfeldt,  eagerly.  "That 
is  a  brave  resolve.  I  accept  it  implicitly.  Mrs.  Mor- 
daunt, I  trust  you  will  not  be  angry  with  my  Violet 
wliile  I  am  away.  I  know  how  she  has  suffered.  It  is 
for  me  to  make  amends  for  all  that.  And  I  promise 
her  happiness,  a  full  cup.     And,  meanwhile,  Violet  —  " 

220 


From  the  Depths 

"I  agree.  I  neither  see  nor  speak  to  nor  send  any 
message  to  David  Harcourt,  as  far  as  lies  in  my  power, 
until  your  return  to-morrow." 

"I  kiss  my  hand  to  you  both!"  cried  Van  Hupfeldt 
with  the  gallant  air  which  came  natural  to  him,  and 
he  went  out.  His  preparations  were  soon  made.  A 
carriage  took  him  to  the  station;  but  before  he  quitted 
the  manor,  he  sent  for  the  gamekeeper. 

"You  were  remiss  in  your  duty,"  he  said  sternly  to 
the  man.  "The  person  of  whom  I  warned  you  has 
been  in  the  park  and  has  spoken  to  Miss  Violet.  Now, 
listen  carefully  to  what  I  say.  Obtain  any  help  you 
require  and  guard  this  house  and  its  grounds  so  that 
not  a  bird  can  fly  over  it  nor  a  rabbit  scamper  among 
the  bushes  without  your  knowledge.  Do  this  until  I 
return  to-morrow  and  I  give  you  fifty  pounds,  but  fail 
in  the  least  particular  and  you  will  be  dismissed  in- 
stantly." He  was  gone,  with  a  rush  of  whipped 
horses. 

Velveteens  took  thought.  "Twiced  in  one  day!" 
he  growled.  "A  licking  or  the  sack,  an'  fifty  quid  or 
the  sack  —  which  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

It  might  be  one,  or  all,  or  none.  Of  such  firsts, 
seconds,  and  thirds  is  the  acrostic  of  life  made  up. 
But  the  promise  of  money  stirred  the  man's  dull  wits. 
No  watch-dog  Could  have  been  more  faithful  to  his 
trust,  and,  by  lavish  oft'ers  of  silver  and  beer  —  de- 
ferred luxuries,  of  course  —  he  secured  the  aid  of 
certain   local  poachers,   his  lasting  enemies,   but  his 

221 


The  Late  Tenant 

friends  for  the  night.  In  g,  word,  if  David  had  crept 
again  into  the  park,  he  would  probably  have  been 
beaten  to  a  jelly. 

But  David  attempted  nothing  of  the  sort.  He  was 
loyal  to  his  pact  with  Violet,  never  dreaming  of  the 
ordeal  to  which  the  girl  had  submitted.  Nevertheless, 
having  no  sort  of  occupation,  he  kept  his  eyes  and 
ears  open.  He  saw  Sharpe  drive  through  the  village, 
and  was  told  that  the  lawyer  was  head  of  a  trusted 
firm  in  the  county  town.  He  saw  Van  Hupfeldt  pass 
toward  the  station,  and  the  ostler  learned  from  a  rail- 
way porter  that  the  "gentleman  from  the  manor"  had 
gone  to  "Lunnon." 

This  gave  David  cause  to  think,  seeing  that  there 
was  no  news  from  Violet.  But  he  waited,  with  much 
hope  and  some  spasms  of  miserableness,  through  the 
long  dull  evening;  heard  nothing  from  her;  went  to 
bed;  tossed  restlessly  until  the  sun  rose;  met  the  village 
postman  at  the  door  of  the  inn;  and  still  received  no 
tidings.  He  breakfasted,  hung  about,  watched  the 
road,  sauntered  as  far  as  the  lodge,  nodded  aifably  to 
velveteens  behind  the  bars,  and  caught  no  glimpse 
of  Violet.  Then  he  determined  to  break  the  spell  of 
silence.  He  returned  to  the  inn  and  wrote  a  letter, 
which  he  intrusted  to  His  Majesty's  Postmaster- 
General  for  express  delivery. 

Sure  enough,  the  postmistress's  young  sister  re- 
fused to  be  turned  back  by  the  Cerberus  at  the  gate, 
nor  would  she  tell  her  business.     The  man  knew  her, 

222 


From  the  Depths 

suspected  her  errand,  but  dared  not  interfere,  having 
a  wholesome  regard  for  the  law;  so  all  he  could  do 
was  to  note  her  coming  and  going,  and  report  to  his 
briber,  for  he  was  Mrs.  Mordaunt's  servant. 
And  this  is  what  David  wrote: 

My  dear  One  —  Can  it  be  that  some  newly  conceived  lie  has 

kept  you  from  sending  for  me?     I  only  ask  your  full  inquiry:  I 

stand  or  fall  by  that.     But  spare  me  this  silence;  for  I  am  eating 

mv  heart  out.  _, 

Yours, 

David. 

The  messenger  tripped  back.  "No  answer,  sir," 
she  said,  and  the  words  smote  David  such  a  blow  that 
his  cheek  blanched,  while  the  girl  wondered. 

"  To  whom  did  you  hand  my  note  ?  "  he  managed  to 
ask. 

"To  Miss  Violet,  sir." 

"  Are  you  sure  ^  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir.     Gave  it  to  her  myself." 

"  And  she  read  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Did  she  say  anything?" 

"Just  that,  sir;  no  answer." 

Then  David,  in  a  mighty  wrath  and  fume,  dashed 
off  another  note. 


Very  well,  be  it  so.  I  return  to  London.  Grod  help  you  if  you 
marry  that  man !  You  will  sink  to  the  pit,  and  the  angels  alone 
will  be  able  to  lift  you  therefrom.  Let  there  be  no  error  this  time. 
I  leave  for  London  at  one  fifteen,  p.m.  If  you  want  me  you  must 
either  detain  me  now  or  come  to  me  in  London. 

223 


The  Late  Tenant 

Back  went  the  postmistress's  sister,  marveling  at 
the  strangeness  of  these  one-sided  missives  between 
the  young  woman  of  the  manor  and  a  handsome  young 
man  at  the  Feathers.  Being  seventeen,  she  took 
David's  side  as  against  Violet.  So  she  added,  on  her 
own  account,  when  she  saw  the  white-faced  aristocrat 
in  the  house,  the  explanatory  statement  that  "the 
young  gentleman  seemed  to  be  very  much  upset  at 
receiving  no  reply." 

Poor  Violet,  in  whom  loyalty  was  hereditary,  could 
not  break  her  word.  But  she  did  say:  *'I  have  no 
message  to-day;  but  I  know  Mr.  Harcourt's  address." 

That  was  the  only  crumb  of  comfort  vouchsafed  to 
David.  Away  he  went  at  quarter-past  one,  nor  did 
the  volcano  in  him  show  any  sign  of  subsidence  when 
he  reached  the  gloom  and  shadows  of  No.  7  Eddystone 
Mansions. 

For  a  little  drop  of  acutest  poison  had  been  poured 
into  his  ear  by  the  gossip  of  the  village.  In  the  bar 
overnight  he  heard  yokels  talking  of  the  need  of  money 
at  the  big  house,  how  Van  Hupfeldt's  wealth  would 
make  the  flowers  grow  again  in  Rigsworth.  He 
smiled  at  the  conceit  then;  now  he  knew  that  deadly 
nightshade  was  sown  in  the  garden  of  his  hopes,  for 
he  imagined  that  money  had  proved  more  potent  than 
love. 

It  was  a  remarkable  thing  that  of  all  the  pictures 
in  the  flat  he  had  left  untouched  the  portrait  in  chalk 
which  hung  over  the  dining-room  fireplace.     It  savored 

224 


From  the  Depths 

too  much  of  sacrilege  to  disturb  that  ethereal  face; 
but  David  was  in  far  too  savage  a  mood  to  check  at 
sentiment  during  those  dark  hours.  He  surveyed  the 
portrait  almost  vindictively,  though  had  he  been  less 
bitter  he  might  have  seen  a  reassuring  smile  in  the 
parted  lips.  So  it  came  to  pass  that,  after  eating  some 
dry  bread,  which  was  the  only  food  he  found  in  the 
larder,  he  lit  a  pipe,  looked  at  the  picture  again,  and 
yielded  to  the  impulse  to  examine  it. 

Strong  as  were  his  nerves,  he  had  to  force  himself 
to  apply  a  knife  to  its  brown-papered  back.  And 
then,  with  a  queer  vindictive  howl  of  triumph,  he  drew 
forth  a  curiously  insipid  portrait  of  Van  Hupfeldt, 
inscribed  "To  Gwen,"  with  a  date,  and,  folded  be- 
hind it,  a  terrible  little  note,  merely  dated  "Paris; 
Tuesday,"  which  read: 

My  Poor  Girl  —  At  last,  then,  you  force  the  miserable  truth 
from  me.  Mrs.  Strauss  is  my  wife.  She  is  twice  my  age.  She 
forced  me  to  marry  her  ten  years  ago  for  her  money.  She  is,  indeed, 
dying,  and  then  I  can  fly  to  you.     For  the  sake  of  our  boy,  forgive 

me.  TT 

Harry. 

"Ah!"  There  was  something  sadly  animal  in 
David's  triumph.  He  felt  like  a  dog  which  has  seized 
the  rat  after  which  it  has  been  straining,  and,  in  a 
minute  or  two,  he  had  the  grace  to  be  ashamed  of 
himself.  Then  he  thought  of  Violet,  and  he  broke 
down,  crying  like  a  child.  Those  tears  were  good  for 
him;  they  brought  him  back  to  sanity  and  garnished 
the  dark  places  of  his  heart. 

225 


The  Late  Tenant 

But  what  to  do?  That  was  more  than  ever  the 
problem.  He  bolted  and  barred  his  door  that  night, 
and  the  photograph  and  letter  lay  beside  his  revolver 
under  his  pillow.  Not  forty  Van  Hupfeldts  nor  a 
legion  of  ghosts  should  reave  him  of  those  telling 
pieces  of  evidence ! 


226 


CHAPTER  XIX 

VIOLET  DECIDES 

Violet,  waked  from  broken  rest  by  the  cooing  of 
doves,  had  rue  in  her  soul.  She  met  her  mother  at 
breakfast,  and  the  good  woman,  thinking  her  daughter 
not  altogether  in  her  right  senses,  was  disposed  to  be 
somewhat  snappish.  So  the  girl  was  driven  back  on 
her  sad  imaginings,  nor  were  they  dissipated  by  David's 
two  little  notes.  When  she  sent  the  messenger  away 
the  second  time  she  was  in  a  strange  state  of  calm. 
Despair  had  numbed  her:  she  thought  persistently  of 
her  sister,  and  wondered  if  the  only  true  rest  was  to 
be  found  in  that  dark  nook  of  the  grave. 

She  saw  a  carriage  depart  for  the  railway  station  to 
bring  Van  Hupfeldt.  In  half  an  hour  its  wheels 
grated  on  the  gravel  of  the  drive,  and  a  servant  came 
to  her  room  to  summon  her  to  the  fateful  conclave. 
She  was  on  her  knees,  in  dry-eyed  prayer,  and  the 
frightened  maid,  who  loved  Miss  Violet,  had  a  little 
catch  in  her  voice  as  she  said: 

"You  are  wanted  in  the  drawing-room,  miss,  and 
please,  miss,  I  do  hope  you  won't  take  on  so.  Every- 
body says  you  ought  to  be  happy;  but  I  "  — snifT  —  "I 
know  yer  ain't,  miss." 

227 


The  Late  Tenant 

Violet  rose  and  kissed  the  girl.  It  was  good  to  have 
such  honest  sympathy. 

In  the  big,  cheerful  salon  beneath  she  found  her 
mother,  stiff  and  self-conscious,  wondering  what  people 
would  think  if  Violet  persisted  in  her  folly;  Van  Hup- 
feldt,  collected  and  deferential,  wearing  a  buttonhole 
of  violets  (of  all  flowers  in  creation!),  and,  seated 
gingerly  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  a  quietly  dressed  young 
woman  with  "domestic  servant"  writ  large  upon  her. 
But  Dibbin,  for  whom  Violet's  eyes  searched  dreamily, 
was  not  there. 

Van  Hupfeldt,  who  seemed  to  have  an  uncanny  trick 
of  reading  her  thoughts  when  they  were  hostile,  ex- 
plained instantly:  "Not  all  my  persuasions  could 
bring  Mr.  Dibbin  from  his  office  to-day.  He  had 
some  business  engagement  which  was  imperative,  he 
said.  But  I  have  done  the  next  best  thing.  Here  is 
a  letter  from  him.  He  will  substantiate  its  statements 
in  person  some  later  day." 

He  held  out  a  letter.  The  girl  took  it  mechanically. 
The  envelope  bore  her  name,  typed.  She  broke  the 
seal  and  began  to  read;  but  her  mother,  resolved  to 
have  "no  nonsense  this  time,"  interrupted,  with  an 
unusual  sharpness: 

"Aloud,  please!" 

So  Violet  read: 

Dear  Miss  Mordaunt:  —  For  some  reason,  not  explained  to 
me,  a  gentleman  named  Van  Hupfeldt  has  asked  me  to  assure  you 
that  he  is  not  Johann  Strauss,  who  rented  the  flat  No.  7,  Eddystone 

228 


Violet  Decides 

Mansions,  some  two  years  since.  Of  course,  I  do  that  readily.  I 
much  regret  that  I  cannot  travel  to  Rigsworth  with  Mr.  Van  Hup- 
feldt  to-day;  but  I  do  not  suppose  that  the  odd  request  he  makes 
is  really  so  urgent  as  he  would  have  me  believe.  Please  convey  my 
respectful  regards  to  Mrs.  Mordaunt.        y         -  .  ,  »  ,, 

John  Dibbin. 

Excepting  the  signature,  the  letter  was  typewritten. 
Violet  knew  the  old  agent's  scrawling  handwriting 
very  well.  He  had  never  sent  her  a  typewritten  letter 
before.  She  laid  the  document  on  the  table  which  had 
borne  the  parchments  of  yesterday. 

"  Well  ?     Is  that  satisfactory  ?  "  said  Van  Hupfeldt. 

"Quite  conclusive,"  murmured  Mrs.  Mordaunt. 

"  Who  is  this  ? "  asked  Violet,  turning  toward  the 
nervous  young  person  on  the  edge  of  a  chair. 

"That  is  Sarah  Gissing,  poor  Gwen's  maid." 

It  was  not  Sarah  Gissing;  but  Jenny,  loaned  by 
Miss  Ermyn  L'Estrange  for  the  day  at  a  stiff  figure 
paid  to  both  —  Jenny,  schooled  for  her  part  and  glib 
enough  at  it,  though  her  Cockney  pertness  was  momen- 
tarily awed  by  the  old-world  grandeur  of  Dale  Manor 
and  its  two  "real"  ladies. 

So  Van  Hupfeldt  was  playing  vdih  loaded  dice; 
he  had  discarded  the  dangerous  notion  of  trjing  to 
buy  Dibbin  for  the  simpler  expedient  of  a  forged 
letter.  The  marriage  ceremony  was  now  the  great 
coup;  let  that  be  an  irrevocable  fact  and  he  believed 
he  would  be  able  to  manage  everything. 

"Ah!"  said  Violet,  with  a  pathos  that  might  have 

229 


The  Late  Tenant 

touched  even  a  calloused  heart,  "you  are  Sarah  Giss- 
ing.  You  knew  my  dear  sister?  You  saw  her  in  her 
last  hours  ?     You  heard  her  last  words  ? " 

"Yes,  miss,"  sniveled  Jenny,  "an*  this  gentleman 
ain't  Mr.  Strauss,  though  he  do  resemble  him  a 
bit." 

Now,  this  assurance  came  too  quick  on  the  heels  of 
a  natural  question.  It  had  not  been  asked  for  as  yet. 
Violet  was  ready  to  bare  her  heart  to  this  common- 
looking  girl  for  sake  of  the  knowledge  that  she  was 
Gwendoline's  only  confidante.  But  the  exceeding 
promptitude  of  Jenny's  testimony  forced  back  the 
rush  of  sentiment.  Violet  even  recoiled  a  little.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  her  sweet  and  gracious  sister,  the 
laughing  sprite  of  bygone  days,  had  been  driven  to 
make  something  of  a  friend  of  this  coarse,  small- 
faced,  mean-eyed  wench  .'^  How  pitiful,  how  sordid, 
was  each  fresh  chapter  of  Gwen's  hidden  life ! 

Van  Hupfeldt  saw  that  a  check  had  occurred, 
though  his  seething  brain,  intent  only  on  securing  an 
unalterable  verdict,  was  unable  to  appreciate  the 
delicate  poise  of  Violet's  emotions.  "Question  her," 
he  said  gently.  "She  will  tell  you  all  about  her  mis- 
tress, to  whom  she  was  very  greatly  attached.  Were 
you  not,  Sarah?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir.  She  were  such  a  lovely  lady,  and  so 
nice  an'  kind  in  her  ways,  that  nobody  could  help 
lovin'  her." 

That  was  better.     Violet  thawed  again.     "I  hardly 

230 


Violet  Decides 

know  what  to  ask  you,"  she  said  wistfully.     "Did  she 
ever  speak  of  us,  of  my  mother  and  me  ? " 

"She  would  talk  about  you  for  hours,  miss.  Many 
a  time  I  could  hardly  get  on  with  my  work,  she  was  so 
anxious  to  have  some  one  to  gossip  with.  Bless  your 
'eart,  miss,  I  know  your  name  as  well  as  my  own." 

Strange,  most  unutterably  strange,  thought  Violet; 
but  she   said,   with  a  sad   smile:   "You   were  much 
favored,  Sarah.     I  would  have  given  all  I  have  in  the 
world  to  have  changed  places  with  you.     Tell  me,  was 
this  man  —  this  Mr.  Strauss  —  kind  to  her  ?  " 
"  He  must  have  been,  miss.     He  —  " 
"  Must  have  been  ?     But  you  saw  and  heard ! " 
Jenny  kept  her  head,  though  she  flushed  a  little. 
"People  often  do  put  on  a  different  way  before  ser- 
vants, miss,  to  what  they  have  in  private.     Not  that 
I  have  reason  to  think  anyways  bad  of  Mr.  Strauss. 
He  was  a  very  generous  sort  of  gentleman,  always  free 
with  his  money.     What  I  meant  was  that  Miss  —  er 
—  Miss  Gwendoline  used  to  speak  of  him  as  a  lovin' 
husband." 

Jenny  caught  her  breath  a  trifle.  She  did  not  dare 
to  look  at  Van  Hupfeldt,  as  he  had  specially  warned 
her  against  doing  so.  Like  most  of  her  class,  she  was 
prepared  now  to  cover  any  mistake  by  excessive 
volubility. 

"  Did  you  address  her  as  *  Miss  Gwendoline,'  then  ? " 
"Yes,  miss.     That  is  the  way  on  the  stage,  you 
know." 

231 


The  Late  Tenant 

"But  this  was  not  on  the  stage." 

"Quite  right,  miss,  only  ladies  in  the  profession 
mostly  uses  their  stage  names  in  private." 

"My  sister  never  appeared  on  any  stage,  to  my 
knowledge." 

Jenny  became  a  little  defiant.  "Of  course,  miss," 
she  answered  tartly,  "I  didn't  know  much  about  my 
missus's  comin's  and  goin's,  but  she  used  to  go  regular 
to  rehearsal.  The  call  was  for  eleven  and  two  most 
days." 

Violet  found  herself  in  a  new  world.  What  could 
have  come  to  Gwendoline  that  she  should  have  quitted 
her  home  and  gone  away  among  these  strange  people  ? 
And  what  had  she  said  that  this  servant-girl  should 
suddenly  show  the  shrew  in  her? 

She  glanced  toward  her  mother,  who,  indeed,  was 
as  greatly  perturbed  as  herself.  The  old  lady  could 
scarce  comprehend  that  the  talk  was  of  her  darling 
GwendoHne.  Then  Van  Hupfeldt,  thinking  to  lead 
Violet's  ideas  into  a  fresh  channel,  broke  in: 

"I  was  sure  that  these  things  would  distress  you," 
he  said  in  the  low  voice  of  sympathy.  "Perhaps  you 
would  prefer  to  send  Sarah  to  the  housekeeper's  room 
while  you  look  at  the  documents  I  have  brought." 

Violet,  in  whose  brain  a  hundred  wild  questions  as 
to  her  sister's  life  were  jostling,  suddenly  faced  Jenny 
again.  "What  was  my  sister's  baby  called?"  she 
asked. 

"Henry,  miss,  after  its  father." 

232 


Violet  Decides 

"But  why  *  Henry,'  since  the  father's  name  was 
Johann  ?  " 

"That  is  a  puzzle,  miss.  I'm  only  tellin'  you  what 
I  know." 

"  And  what  became  of  the  child  ?  Why  was  it 
spirited  away  from  its  mother.^  or  was  it  not  taken 
away  until  after  her  death  .^" 

Jenny  had  been  told  to  be  close  as  an  oyster  on  this 
matter.  "  I  don't  know  why  the  baby  was  sent  out 
to  nurse,  miss,"  she  said.  "I  can  only  tell  you  it  was 
never  in  the  flat." 

Violet  passed  a  hand  across  her  eyes  as  though  to 
clear  a  bewildered  brain.  This  domestic  lived  in  a 
small  flat  with  her  sister,  who  "  gossiped  "  for  "  hours  " 
with  her,  yet  the  girl  knew  little  about  a  child  which 
Gwen  must  have  idolized. 

"  Then  you  never  saw  the  baby  ? "  she  asked. 

"No,  miss;  that  is,  once,  I  think,"  for  Jenny  did 
now  venture  to  look  at  Van  Hupfeldt,  and  his  slight 
nod  came  at  the  instant  of  her  denial.  He  thought 
the  infant  a  safe  topic,  in  regard  to  its  appearance, 
and  the  mother's  love  of  it. 

Mrs.  Mordaunt,  who  had  been  listening  intently 
enough,  caught  Jenny's  hesitation.  "  It  is  odd,"  she 
said,  "that  you  should  have  forgotten,  or  be  uncer- 
tain of,  such  a  definite  fact  as  seeing  my  daughter's 
child." 

A  maid  entered  with  a  telegram  which  she  handed 
to  Violet.     In  a  quiet  country  mansion  the  advent  of  a 

233 


The  Late  Tenant 

telegram  is  a  rare  event.  People  in  rural  England 
regard  this  curt  manner  of  communication  as  reserved 
only  for  important  items.  Mrs.  Mordaunt  was  a 
little  alarmed.  Her  mind  quickly  reviewed  all  her 
relatives'  ailments. 

"What  is  it,  Vi.^"  she  asked  anxiously,  while  Van 
Hupfeldt  wondered  if  any  unoccupied  fiend  had 
tempted  David  Harcourt  to  interfere  at  this  critical 
moment. 

Violet  opened  the  buff  envelope  and  read  the  mes- 
sage slowly.  It  was  a  perfectly  marvelous  thing  that 
she  retained  her  self-control,  for  the  telegram  was 
from  Dibbin  at  Dundee. 

Have  just  concluded  sale,  after  three  days'  private  negotiation 
here.    Your  moiety  five  hundred  pounds.     Letter  follows. 

It  referred  to  a  long-deferred  bequest  from  a  cousin, 
and  was  a  simple  matter  enough.  But  Dibbin  realiz- 
ing an  estate  in  the  north  of  Scotland  and  Dibbin 
writing  typewritten  testimonials  of  Van  Hupfeldt  in 
London  on  one  and  the  same  day  was  a  Mahatma 
performance,  a  case  of  psychic  projection  which  did 
not  enter  into  the  ordinary  scheme  of  things. 

Nevertheless,  Violet,  save  for  one  flash  of  intensest 
surprise  in  those  deep  eyes  of  hers,  maintained  her 
self-control.  She  had  been  so  tried  already  that  her 
mind  could  withstand  any  shock.  "It  is  nothing, 
mother  —  merely  a  reference  to  the  Auchlachan  affair," 
she  said,  crushing  the  telegram  into  a  little  ball  in  her 
hand. 

234 


Violet  Decides 

"Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  greatly  relieved.  "I 
dreamed  of  Aunt  Jane  last  night." 

"Well,  now,"  said  Van  Hupfeldt,  after  a  bound  or 
two  of  his  heart,  "  what  do  you  say  ?  Mr.  Sharpe  will 
be  here  soon." 

"You  have  the  certificates  and  the  diary?"  said 
Violet. 

"The  certificates,  yes;  not  the  diary.  On  calm 
thought,  I  have  decided  irrevocably  that  the  diary 
shall  not  be  placed  in  your  hands  until  the  lapse  of 
our  six  months'  agreement.  I  have  yielded  every 
other  point;  there  I  am  rigid." 

"  Do  you  assign  any  reason  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  right  as  your  affianced  husband  to  preserve 
you  from  the  grief  and  morbidness  of  reading  a  record 
of  suffering.  I  would  not  have  you  a  weeping  bride. 
When  we  return  from  our  wedding-tour  I  shall  hand 
you  the  diary,  no  sooner." 

"The  certificates,  then,"  said  Violet,  composedly. 

Van  Hupfeldt  took  two  papers  from  a  pocket-book. 
One  recorded  the  marriage  of  Henry  Van  Hupfeldt 
to  Gwendoline  Mordaunt  at  the  office  of  the  Brighton 
registrar.  The  other  was  the  certificate  of  the  birth 
of  the  child  in  the  same  town  a  year  later. 

It  was  a  fine  piece  of  daring  for  the  man  to  produce 
these  documents.  His  own  name;  his  age,  thirty  eight; 
his  occupation,  gentleman,  were  set  forth  on  the  long 
narrow  strip,  and  the  address  was  given  as  No.  7, 
Eddystone  Mansions,  London,  W.     Even  Mrs.  Mor- 

235 


The  Late  Tenant 

daunt  was  startled  when  she  glanced  over  her  daughter's 
shoulder  at  the  papers. 

Suddenly  Violet  thought  she  saw  a  ray  of  light. 
"  Was  this  man  a  brother,  some  near  relative,  of  yours  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"No,  no  relation."  Van  Hupfeldt  was  taken  aback, 
and  the  negative  flew  out  before  he  realized  that  this 
might  have  been  a  good  card  to  play.  But  no;  Violet 
would  never  have  married  him  then. 

"What  a  mystery!  To  think  that  he  should  adopt 
your  name,  be  of  your  apparent  age,  and  yet  that  you 
should  come  here  to  Rigsworth  and  make  our  acquaint- 
ance ! " 

"No  mystery  at  all.  You  drag  everything  from  me 
like  a  skilled  lawyer.  Strauss  did  more  than  borrow 
my  name;  he  forged  it.  There  was  a  police  inquiry. 
I  was  called  into  it.  My  curiosity  was  aroused.  I 
learned  something  of  your  sister's  story,  and  I  took 
steps  to  meet  you." 

"Introduced  by  Lord  Vanstone!"  murmured  Mrs. 
Mordaunt. 

"Yes,  some  one.  I  quickly  forgot  all  else  when  I 
was  granted  the  privilege  of  your  friendship." 

And  he  took  Violet's  hand  and  kissed  it,  with  a 
delicate  grace  that  was  courtly  in  him. 

Sharpe  was  announced.  Mrs.  Mordaunt  sent  Jenny 
away  in  a  maid's  escort,  and  Violet  knew  that  her 
hour  of  final  yielding  was  near. 

She   still   held    the    certificates.     "Am   I   to   keep 

236 


Violet  Decides 

these?"  she  asked,  while  her  mouth  quivered  shghtly. 
She  was  thinking,  thinking,  all  the  time,  of  David  and 
Dibbin  and  of  the  queer  collapse  of  Gwendoline  which 
made  that  little  Cockney  woman  her  companion. 
But  what  plea  could  she  urge  now?  She  could  only 
ask  for  a  few  days'  respite,  just  to  clear  away  some 
lingering  doubts,  and  then  —  But,  for  mother's  sake, 
no  protests  now,  nor  tears,  nor  questions. 

Sharpe's  ferret  eyes  took  in  the  altered  situation. 
Yesterday's  clouds  had  passed.  A  glance  from  Van 
Hupfeldt  brought  him  to  business.  There  was  a 
marriage  settlement  of  five  thousand  pounds  per 
annuiUy  to  be  increased  to  twice  the  amount  in  the 
event  of  widowhood  —  and  Sharpe  explained  the 
legal  proviso  that  Violet  was  to  be  free  to  marry  again, 
if  so  minded,  without  forfeiting  any  portion  of  this 
magnificent  yearly  revenue. 

"Most  generous!"  Mrs.  Mordaunt  could  not  help 
saying,  and  even  the  girl  herself,  miserable  and  droop- 
ing as  a  caged  thrush,  knew  that  Van  Hupfeldt  was 
showing  himself  a  princely  suitor. 

"And  now  follows  a  somewhat  unusual  document," 
said  Sharpe  in  his  brisk  legal  way.  "Mr.  Van  Hup- 
feldt has  instructed  me  to  prepare  a  will,  leaving  all  his 
real  and  personal  estate  to  Miss  Violet  Mordaunt,  he 
being  confident  that  she  will  faithfully  carry  out  cer- 
tain instructions  of  his  o^\ti.  Of  course,  this  instru- 
ment will  have  a  very  brief  life.  Marriage,  I  may 
explain,   Miss  Mordaunt,  invalidates  all  wills  previ- 

237 


The  Late  Tenant 

ously  executed  by  either  of  the  parties.  Hence,  it  is 
intended  only  to  cover  the  interregnum,  so  to  speak, 
between  to-day's  bachelordom  and  the  marriage  cere- 
mony of  —  er  — 

"  Of  this  day  week  ?  "  asked  Van  Hupfeldt,  eagerly. 

"Be  it  so,"  said  Violet,  for  she  had  a  plan  in  her 
mind  now,  and  whatever  happened,  a  week's  grace 
was  sufficient. 

"Mrs.  Mordaunt  and  I  are  appointed  trustees  fro 
tern  for  the  purposes  of  the  marriage  settlement,"  went 
on  Sharpe.  "Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt  will,  of  course, 
execute  a  fresh  will  after  marriage.  All  we  need  now 
are  two  witnesses  for  various  signatures.  My  clerk, 
who  is  waiting  in  the  hall,  will  serve  as  one." 

"The  girl,  Sarah  Gissing,  who  was  here  just  now, 
might  be  called  in,"  said  Mrs.  Mordaunt. 

"  No,  no ! "  cried  Van  Hupfeldt.  "  She  is  a  stranger. 
After  to-day  she  vanishes  from  our  lives.  Please 
summon  one  of  your  own  servants  —  the  housekeeper, 
or  a  footman." 

So  Violet  and  Van  Hupfeldt  and  Mrs.  Mordaunt 
and  the  witnesses  signed  their  names  on  various 
parchments  at  places  where  the  lawyer  had  marked 
little  crosses  in  pencil. 

Violet,  as  in  a  dream,  saw  the  name  "Henry  Van 
Hupfeldt"  above  that  of  "Violet  Mordaunt,"  just  as 
it  appeared  over  "  Gwendoline  Mordaunt "  in  the 
marriage  certificate.  In  her  eyes,  the  tiny  crosses 
made  the  great  squares  of  vellum  look  like  the  chart 

238 


Violet  Decides 

of  a  cemetery.  Yet  there  was  soniething  singing 
sweetly  in  her  ears :  *'  You  still  have  a  week  of  liberty. 
Use  your  time  well.  Not  all  the  law  in  the  land  can 
force  you  to  the  altar  unless  you  wish  it."  And  this 
lullaby  was  soothing. 

Soon  the  solicitor  took  off  himself  and  his  duplicates, 
for  he  handed  certain  originals  to  Violet,  advising  her 
to  intrust  them  to  the  care  of  a  bank  or  her  mother's 
legal  advisers.  Van  Hupfeldt,  with  a  creditable  tact, 
set  himself  to  entertain  the  two  ladies,  and  when 
Violet  wished  to  interview  "Sarah  Gissing"  again,  he 
explained  that  the  girl  had  been  sent  back  to  London 
by  his  orders. 

"No  more  tears,"  he  said  earnestly;  "no  more 
doubtings  and  wonderings.  When  we  return  from  a 
tour  in  the  States  you  shall  meet  her  again  and  satisfy 
all  your  cravings." 

Evidently  his  design  was  to  remain  at  Dale  Manor 
until  they  were  quietly  married,  and,  meanwhile, 
surround  the  place  with  every  possible  protection.  It 
came,  therefore,  as  a  dreadful  shock  to  him  when 
Violet  disappeared  for  a  whole  hour  after  breakfast 
next  morning,  and  then  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  red-eyed  and 
incoherent,  rushed  to  find  him  with  a  note  which  had 
just  reached  her  from  the  station. 

It  read: 

Dear  Mother  —  I  suppose  I  have  freedom  of  action  for  two 
days  out  of  my  seven.  I  wish  to  make  certain  inquiries;  so  I  am 
going  away  until  to-morrow  night,  or,  possibly,  the  next  morning. 

239 


The  Late  Tenant 

I  think  Mr.  Van  Hupfeldt  will  say  this  is  fair,  and,  in  justice  to  him, 
I  wish  to  state  that  I  shall  not  see  Mr.  David  Harcourt  by  design. 
Should  I  see  him  by  chance  I  shall  refuse  to  speak  to  him. 

Your  loving  daughter, 

Violet. 

"It  is  ended!  I  have  done  with  her!  She  has 
played  me  false!"  screamed  the  man  when  he  under- 
stood that  Violet  had  really  quitted  Rigsworth.  His 
paroxysm  of  rage  was  so  fierce  that  Mrs.  Mordaunt 
was  terrified  that  he  would  die  on  the  spot;  but  his 
passion  ended  in  an  equally  vehement  declaration  of 
sorrow  and  affection.  He  would  follow  her  and  bring 
her  back.  Mrs.  Mordaunt  must  come  with  him  in- 
stantly. The  girl  must  be  saved  from  herself.  Surely 
they  would  find  her,  even  in  London,  whither  he  was 
certain  she  had  gone,  for  she  would  only  go  to  her 
accustomed  haunts. 

He  infected  the  grief-stricken  mother  with  some  of 
his  own  frenzy.  She  promised  to  be  at  the  station  in 
time  for  the  next  train;  he  tore  off  to  the  telegraph 
office,  where  he  wrote  messages  in  a  white  fever  of 
action.  First,  he  bade  his  factotum  Neil  meet  the 
train  from  Rigsworth  in  which  Violet  traveled,  and 
ascertain  her  movements,  if  possible. 

The  second  was  to  Dibbin: 

A  client  has  recommended  you  to  me.     Leave  by  earliest  train 

for  Portsmouth  and  call  at  offices  of  (a  named  firm  of  solicitors) 

for  instructions.     I  forward  herewith  fifty  pounds  for  preliminary 

expenses.  „  _,      „ 

Henry  Van  Hupfeldt. 

240 


Violet  Decides 

The  fifty  pounds  which  he  thus  telegraphed  to  Dibbin 
were  notes  which  he  had  brought  for  the  gamekeeper; 
so  this  payment  was  deferred,  at  the  least. 

Then  he  sent  word  to  the  Portsmouth  firm  that  Dib- 
bin was  to  be  dispatched  on  a  secret  estate-hunting 
quest  in  Devonshire,  at  any  terms  he  chose  to  demand. 
His  next  telegram  was  to  Mrs.  Carter  at  Pangley: 

Take  baby  at  once  by  train  to  Station  Hotel,  New-street,  Bir- 
mingham. Leave  word  with  neighbors  and  at  station  to  say 
where  you  have  gone.  I  will  write  you  at  Birmingham  and  send 
money  to-night. 

Finally  to  David  he  wired: 

I  now  know  everything.    Mrs.  Carter  is  about  to  take  my  sister's 

child  away  from  Pangley.     Please  go  there  at  once,  find  out  where 

she  has  gone,  and  follow  her.     Wire  me  to-morrow,  or  next  day, 

what   you   have   discovered.     Forgive  yesterday's   silence;    it   was 

unavoidable.  -, 

Violet. 

That  was  all  he  could  devise  in  the  present  chaos  of 
his  mind.  But  it  would  serve,  he  thought,  to  give  a 
few  hours'  breathing-space.  He  was  hard  pressed, 
but  far  from  beaten  yet.  And  now  that  Violet  and  her 
mother  were  away  from  Dale  Manor,  he  would  take 
care  that  they  did  not  return  to  the  house  until  Violet 
was  his  wife.  Perhaps  even  in  this  desperate  hour 
things  had  happened  for  the  best. 


241 


CHAPTER  XX 

DAVID  HAS  ONE  VISITOR,  AND  EXPECTS  OTHERS 

David  had  to  rise  pretty  early  to  admit  his  char- 
woman. Behind  her,  in  the  outer  lobby,  he  saw  the 
scared  face  of  the  hall-porter,  who  remembered  that  a 
certain  loud  knocking  and  difficulty  of  gaining  access 
to  that  flat  on  one  other  occasion  had  been  the  prelude 
to  a  tragic  discovery,  though  he,  not  being  in  the 
building  at  the  time,  had  heard  of  the  affair  only  from 
his  mates. 

David  smiled  reassurance  at  him,  and  went  back 
to  his  bed-room  to  dress.  He  placed  the  portrait  and 
the  letter  in  an  inner  pocket  of  his  waistcoat  provided 
for  paper  money,  and,  the  hour  being  in  advance  of 
breakfast-time,  went  out  for  a  stroll. 

Regent's  Park  was  delightful  that  morning.  Not 
spring,  but  summer,  was  in  the  air.  Nature,  to  com- 
pel man  to  admire  her  dainty  contrivances,  v/as  shut- 
ting in  the  vistas.  Already  trees  and  hedge-rows  flung 
their  leafy  screens  across  the  landscape.  So  David 
wandered  on,  promising  himself  many  such  mornings 
with  Violet;  for  it  passed  his  wit  to  see  how  Van  Hup- 
feldt  could  wriggle  out  of  the  testimony  of  his  own  pic- 
ture and  his  own  handwriting. 

242 


David  has  One  Visitor  and  Expects  Others 

Hence,  instead  of  being  earlier  he  was  somewhat 
later  than  usual  in  sitting  down  to  breakfast,  and  he 
was  a  surprised  young  man  when,  his  charwoman  hav- 
ing gone  to  answer  a  ring  at  the  door,  the  announce- 
ment came  of: 

"A  lady  to  see  you,  sir." 
•   "A   lady!"    he   gasped.     "Who   is   she?"   and   he 
hoped  wildly  that  it  might  be  Violet. 

"You  know  her  well  enough,  old  boy,"  came  the 
high-pitched  voice  of  Miss  Ermyn  L'Estrange,  who 
now  appeared  in  the  dining-room,  a  pink-faced  vision 
in  a  flower-garden  hat  and  muslins.  "Poof!"  she 
cried.  "I  have  not  been  out  for  many  a  day  before 
the  streets  were  aired.  Say,  young  party,  that  bacon 
and  egg  has  a  more  gratifying  scent  than  violets.  I 
have  come  all  the  way  from  Chelsea  on  one  cup  of  tea." 

The  charwoman,  eying  the  visitor  askance,  admitted 
that  more  supplies  could  be  arranged. 

"Hurry  up,  then,  fairy,"  said  Miss  L'Estrange. 
"And  don't  look  so  shocked.  Your  master  here  is 
the  very  goodest  young  man  in  London." 

David  said  that  even  the  just  man  fell  seven  times 
a  day;  but,  anyhow,  he  was  delighted  to  see  her. 

"You  look  it,"  was  the  dry  response.  "I  never 
knew  anybody  who  threw  their  heart  into  their  eyes  as 
you  do.  You  will  never  get  on  in  London  if  you  don't 
learn  to  lie  better.  When  you  say  that  sort  of  thing 
you  should  gush  a  little  and  leer  —  at  any  rate,  when 
you  are  talking  to  a  woman." 

243 


The  Late  Tenant 

"But  I  mean  it,"  he  vowed.  "You  can't  tell  how 
nice  it  is  to  have  some  frills  on  the  other  side  of  the 
table.     That  hat,  now,  is  a  picture." 

"The  hair  is  a  bad  color  to  suit,  you  know." 

"Ah,  no,  it  has  the  gold  of  the  sun  in  it.  Perhaps 
I  may  be  phrasing  the  words  awkwardly,  but  you 
look  ten  years  younger  this  morning.  Miss  L'Estrange." 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  the  ceihng.  "Ye  gods!" 
she  cried,  "  if  only  I  had  those  ten  back  again ! "  Then 
she  gave  David  a  coy  glance.  "  I  don't  mind  betting 
you  half  a  quid,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  only  pleased 
to  see  me  here  because  I  bring  to  your  mind  the  pos- 
sibility of  another  girl  being  your  vis-a-vis  at  break- 
fast." 

"Now  you  would  make  me  dumb  when  I  am  most 
anxious  to  talk." 

"Oh,  you  candid  wretch!  Why  did  I  come  here? 
Don't  you  believe  that  there  are  twenty  men  in  London 
who  would  give  quite  a  lot  if  I  honored  them  by  this 
morning  call  ?  " 

"I  do  believe  it,"  said  David,  gravely,  "and  that  is 
just  why  you  are  here,  and  not  with  one  of  the  twenty. 
You  are  a  far  more  upright  little  lady  than  you  profess 
to  be.  Miss  L'Estrange." 

She  actually  blushed,  for,  like  most  women  who  are 
compelled  to  make  up  professionally,  never  an  atom 
of  grease  or  rouge  was  on  her  face  at  other  times. 
"David,"  she  said,  "you  are  a  nice  boy.  I  wish  you 
were  my  brother." 

244 


David  has  One  Visitor  and  Expects  Others 

"You  would  be  fine  and  dandy  as  a  sister." 

"  Well,  let's  be  friends.  And  the  first  sign  of  friend- 
ship is  a  common  alliance.  I've  taken  your  side 
against  Strauss." 

"What  of  him?"  demanded  David,  warily;  for  Miss 
Ermyn  was  a  slippery  customer,  he  fancied. 

"Now,  no  fencing,  or  the  alliance  is  off.  You  were 
down  at  Rigsworth  yesterday,  remember,  and  you 
came  back  in  a  mighty  temper.  Not  even  your  pretty 
Violet  was  all  perfection  last  evening,  was  she  ?  " 

*'  Things  did  go  wrong,  I  admit,"  said  he,  marveling 
at  this  attack. 

"  Well,  I  am  not  here  to  pump  you,  or  else  I  would 
surprise  you  a  bit  more.  No,  David,  I'm  here  just 
because  I'm  a  woman,  and  as  full  of  mischief  as  an 
egg  is  full  of  meat;  so  that  I  can't  help  interfering  in  a 
love  affair,  though  it  isn't  my  own.  Did  you  know 
that  Strauss  brought  Jenny  to  Rigsworth  yesterday?" 

"  Jenny  ?     Why  Jenny  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  wanted  to  know.  And  she  wouldn't 
tell  me,  the  cat,  until  I  got  my  Irish  up  and  offered  to 
drag  her  over  the  furniture  by  the  hair  of  her  head. 
And  it  was  no  use  her  lying  to  me,  either.  Every  time 
she  tried  to  think  of  a  plausible  tale  I  told  her  it  would 
hurt  to  cross  the  chiffonier  head  first.  At  last  she 
owned  up,  and  then  I  opened  a  small  bottle  —  she 
wanted  it,  I  assure  you  —  and  I  got  the  whole  story 
while  we  finished  it." 

"  But,  for  goodness'  sake  —  " 

245 


The  Late  Tenant 

''Whoa,  my  boy!  Don't  rush  your  fences.  I'll  tell 
you  everything,  so  keep  calm.  First,  the  night  before 
last,  Strauss  comes  to  me  —  " 

"  One  moment,"  broke  in  David.  "  Is  this  Strauss  ?  " 
and  he  handed  her  the  portrait. 

She  looked  at  it  and  laughed.  "Why,  of  course  it 
is!"  she  said.  "Fancy  you  keeping  his  picture  over 
your  heart !     Now,  if  it  had  been  Violet,  or  me  —  " 

"  Sorry  to  have  interrupted  you,"  he  said. 

"Funny  idea!  Anyhow,  Strauss  turned  up  the 
night  before  last  and  wanted  to  borrow  Jenny  for  the 
whole  of  next  day.  It  was  beastly  awkward,  as  she 
was  helping  me  to  re-hem  this  dress  and  put  new 
sleeves  in  the  bodice;  but  he  badgered  me  so  that  I 
could  hardly  refuse,"  and  she  thought  for  an  instant 
of  certain  notes  crumpled  up  in  the  gold  purse  which 
was  slung  from  her  neck;  "so  I  packed  Jenny  off 
about  eight  o'clock  next  morning  —  yesterday,  that  is. 
I  was  in  a  temper  all  day,  and  tore  two  flounces  out 
of  my  frock,  and  scraped  my  shin  on  the  step  of  a 
hansom;  so  when  the  minx  came  smirking  home  about 
midnight,  to  find  me  making  my  own  fire,  I  let  her 
have  it,  I  can  tell  you.  But  it  fairly  gave  me  the 
needle  when  she  wouldn't  say  what  Strauss  wanted 
her  for,  and  then  the  row  sprang  up.  Guess  you  want 
to  smoke,  eh .?     I  would  like  a  cigarette  myself." 

David  was  most  docile  outwardly  when  all  of  a  boil 
within.  He  awaited  her  pleasure,  saw  her  seated  in  a 
comfortable  chair,  joined  in  her  own  admiration  of  a 

246 


David  has  One  Visitor  and  Expects  Others 

pair  of  really  pretty  feet,  and  lit  a  pipe.  Then  she 
continued : 

"  There  was  poisonous  trouble  for  about  five  minutes. 
I  might  have  let  her  off  if  she  hadn't  said  things.  Then 
I  frightened  her.  I  believe  I  did  yank  her  hat  off.  At 
last,  she  confessed  that  Strauss  told  her  that  his  name 
now  was  Van  Hupfeldt,  and  he  wanted  her  to  go  down 
to  Rigsworth  to  be  introduced  to  two  ladies  as  Sarah 
Gissing,  Gwen  Barnes's  maid." 

"What.'^"  yelled  David,  springing  to  his  feet. 

"  Oh,  chuck  it ! "  said  Miss  L'Estrange  in  a  voice  of 
deep    disgust.     "You   nearly   made   me   swallow   my 


cigarette.' 


"But  the  man  is  a  devil." 

"Sit  down,  boy,  sit  down.  You  men  are  all  six  of 
one  and  half  a  dozen  of  the  other  where  a  woman  is 
concerned.  Poor  things!  I  wonder  how  any  of  us 
escape  you  at  all.  Still,  Strauss  is  pretty  artful,  I 
admit.  You  see,  Jenny,  having  been  in  service  here, 
could  lie  so  smoothly  about  Gwen  Barnes  that  it  would 
be  hard  to  find  her  out." 

"Did  she  do  this?"  asked  David  in  a  fierce  excite- 
ment. 

Miss  L'Estrange  laughed  again  as  she  selected  a 
fresh  cigarette  to  replace  the  spoiled  one. 

"  Did  the  cat  steal  cream  ?  Fancy  Jenny  being 
offered  twenty  pounds  for  a  day's  prevarication  and 
refusing  it!     Why,  that  girl  lies  for  practise." 

"  Oh,  please  go  on ! "  he  groaned. 

247 


The  Late  Tenant 

"Queer  game,  isn't  it?  I  often  think  the  ha'penny 
papers  don't  get  hold  of  half  the  good  things  that  are 
going.  Well,  Jenny,  according  to  her  own  version, 
spoofed  Mrs.  Mordaunt  and  your  Violet  in  great 
shape.  What  is  more,  Strauss  and  a  lawyer  man 
wheedled  them  into  signing  all  sorts  of  papers,  includ- 
ing a  marriage  settlement.  Will  you  believe  it.^  The 
Dutchman  had  the  cheek  to  give  your  Violet  the  cer- 
tificates which  Jenny  sold  to  him." 

David  said  something  under  his  breath. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  L'Estrange,  "he  deserves  it.  I 
can't  abide  a  man  who  goes  in  for  deceiving  a  poor 
girl.  So,  at  my  own  loss,  mind  you,  I  determined  to 
come  here  this  morning  and  give  you  a  friendly  tip." 

"Heaven  knows  I  shall  endeavor  to  repay  you!" 
sighed  David,  in  a  perfect  heat  now  to  be  out  and 
doing,  doing  he  knew  not  what. 

"  Is  she  very  beautiful,  your  Violet  ? "  asked  his 
visitor,  turning  on  him  with  one  of  her  bird-like  move- 
ments of  the  head. 

"That  is  her  sister,"  said  David,  flinging  a  hand 
toward  the  portrait. 

"  Ah,  I  knew  Gwen  Barnes.  Saw  her  in  the  theater, 
you  know.  A  nice  girl,  but  notliing  to  rave  about. 
Rather  of  the  clinging  sort.  You  men  prefer  that  type 
I  do  believe.  And  now  that  you  have  heard  my  yarn, 
you  want  me  to  go,  eh  ?  " 

"No,  no.     No  hurry  at  all." 

"You  dear  David!    Mouth  all  'No,'  eyes  all  'Yes.' 

248 


David  has  One  Visitor  and  Expects  Others 

That's  it.  Treat  me  like  an  old  shoe.  Bless  you! 
we  women  worship  that  sort  of  thing,  until,  all  at  once, 
we  blaze  up.  Well,  you  will  give  Strauss  a  drubbing 
one  of  these  days,  and  I  shan't  be  sorry.  I  hate  pretty 
men.  They  are  all  affectation,  and  waxy  like  a  bar- 
ber's doll.  Well,  ta-ta!  You're  going  to  have  a  nice, 
pleasant  day,  I  can  see.  But,  fair  play,  mind.  No 
telling  tales  about  your  little  Ermyn.  I  have  done 
more  for  you  to-day  than  I  would  do  for  any  other 
man  in  creation.  And  some  day  you  must  bring 
your  Violet  to  tea;  I  promise  to  be  good  and  talk  nice. 
There,  now ;  ain't  I  a  wonder  ?  " 

And  she  was  gone,  in  a  whirl  of  flounces  and  high 
heels,  the  last  he  heard  of  her  when  she  declined  to  let 
him  come  to  the  door  "  with  that  glare  "  in  his  eye  being 
her  friendly  hail  to  the  lift-man :  "  Hello,  Jimmie !  Like 
old  times  to  see  you  again.  How's  the  wife  and  the 
kiddies  ?  " 

Left  to  his  own  devices,  David  was  at  his  wits'  end 
to  know  how  to  act  for  the  best.  At  last  he  wrote  a 
telegram  to  Violet: 

The  girl  you  met  yesterday  as  Sarah  Gissing  was  not  your  sister's 
maid,  but  another  woman  masquerading  in  her  stead.  I  implore 
you  and  your  mother  to  come  to  London  and  meet  me  in  Mr.  Dib- 
bin's  oflSce.  He  knows  the  real  Sarah  Gissing,  and  will  produce 
her. 

This  was  definite  enough,  and  he  thought  the  in- 
troduction of  Dibbin's  name  would  be  helpful  with 
Mrs.  Mordaunt.     Then  he  rushed  off  to  see  Dibbin 

249 


The  Late  Tenant 

himself,  but  learned  from  a  clerk  that  the  agent  would 
not  arrive  from  Scotland  until  six- thirty  p.m.,  "which 
is  a  pity,"  said  the  clerk,  ruefully,  "because  a  first-rate 
commission  has  just  come  in  for  him  by  wire." 

"Some  one  in  a  hurry?"  said  Harcourt,  speaking 
rather  to  cloak  his  own  disappointment  than  out  of 
any  commiseration  for  Dibbin's  loss. 

"  I  should  think  so,  indeed.  Fifty  golden  sovereigns 
sent  by  telegraph,  just  to  get  him  quick  to  Portsmouth." 

David  heard,  and  wondered.  He  made  a  chance 
shot.  "I  expect  that  is  my  friend.  Van  Hupfeldt," 
he  said. 

"The  very  man!"  gasped  the  clerk. 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  harm  done.  Mr.  Dibbin  comes  to 
King's  Cross,  I  suppose.'^" 

"Yes.     I  shall  be  there  to  meet  him." 

Certainly  things  were  lively  at  Rigsworth.  David 
had  a  serious  notion  of  going  there  by  the  next  train. 
But  he  returned  to  Eddystone  Mansions,  in  case  there 
might  be  an  answer  from  Violet.  Sure  enough,  there 
he  found  the  telegram  sent  in  her  name  by  Van  Hup- 
feldt. The  time  showed  that  it  was  despatched  about 
the  same  hour  as  his  own.  At  first,  his  heart  danced 
with  the  joy  of  knowing  that  she  still  trusted  him. 
And  how  truly  wonderful  that  she  mentioned  Pangley, 
a  town  he  had  not  named  to  her;  there  must,  indeed, 
have  been  a  tremendous  eruption  at  Dale  Manor. 
Yet  it  was  too  bad  that  he  should  be  forced  to  leave 
London  and  go  in  chase  of  Mrs.  Carter  and  the  baby. 

250 


David  has  One  Visitor  and  Expects  Others 

Why,  he  would  be  utterly  cut  off  from  active  com- 
munication with  her  for  hours,  and  it  was  so  vitally 
important  that  they  should  meet.  Of  course,  he  would 
obey,  but  first  he  would  await  the  chance  of  a  reply 
to  his  message.     So  he  telegraphed  again: 

Will  go  to  Pangley.     Tell  me  when  I  can  see  you. 

He  was  his  own  telegraph  messenger.  While  he 
was  out  another  buff  envelope  found  its  way  to  his 
table.  Here  was  the  confusion  of  a  fog,  for  this  screed 
ran: 

Miss  Violet  Mordaunt  traveled  to  London  this  morning  by  the 

nine-eleven  train.     This  is  right.  t-. 

*'  Friend. 

There  was  no  name;  but  the  post-office  said  the  in- 
formation came  from  Rigsworth,  and  the  post-office 
indulges  in  cold  official  accuracy.  Somehow,  this 
word  from  a  friend  did  strike  him  as  friendly.  It 
made  him  read  again,  and  ponder  weightily,  the  longer 
statement  signed  "Violet." 

He  could  not  tell,  oh,  sympathetic  little  sister  of  the 
Rigsworth  postmistress,  that  you  wheedled  the  grocer's 
assistant  into  writing  that  most  important  telegram. 
It  was  a  piece  of  utmost  daring  on  the  part  of  a  village 
maid,  and  perhaps  it  might  be  twisted  into  an  infringe- 
ment of  the  "Official  Secrets  Act,"  or  some  such 
terrifying  ordinance;  but  your  tender  little  heart  had 
gone  out  to  the  young  man  who  got  "  no  answer  "  from 
the  lady  of  the  manor,  and  you  knew  quite  well  that 

251 


The  Late  Tenant 

Violet  had  never  sent  him  to  Pangley  to  hunt  for  a 
missing  baby. 

Anyhow,  David  was  glowering  at  both  flimsy  slips 
of  paper,  when  a  letter  reached  him.  It  was  marked 
*'  Express  Delivery,"  and  had  been  handed  in  at  Euston 
Station  soon  after  twelve  o'clock. 

This  time  there  could  be  no  doubt  whatever  that 
Violet  was  the  writer.  Here  was  the  identical  hand- 
writing of  the  first  genuine  note  he  had  received  from 
her.  And  there  was  Violet  herself  in  the  phrasing  of 
it,  though  she  was  brief  and  reserved.     She  wrote: 

Dear  David  —  I  am  in  London  for  the  purpose  of  making 
certain  inquiries.  I  must  not  see  you  if  I  can  help  it.  I  must  be 
quite,  quite  alone  and  unaided.  Please  pardon  my  seeming  want 
of  confidence.  In  this  matter  I  am  trusting  to  God's  help  and  my 
own  endeavors.  But  I  want  you  to  oblige  me  by  being  away  from 
your  flat  to-night  between  midnight  and  two  a.m.  That  is  all. 
Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  explain  everything  later. 

Your  sincere  well-wisher, 

Violet  Mordahnt. 

Then  David  ran  like  a  beagle  to  Euston  Station; 
but  Violet  had  been  gone  from  there  nearly  an  hour, 
because  he  found  on  inquiry  that  the  nine-eleven  train 
from  Rio:sworth  had  arrived  at  noon.  Yet  he  could 
not  be  content  unless  he  careered  about  London  look- 
ing for  her,  first  at  Porchester  Gardens,  then  at  Dib- 
bin's  office,  at  which  he  arrived  exactly  five  minutes 
before  she  did,  and  he  must  have  driven  along  Picca- 
dilly while  she  was  turning  the  corner  from  Regent's. 

252 


David  has  One  Visitor  and  Expects  Others 

London  is  the  biggest  bundle  of  hay  when  you  want  to 
find  anybody. 

Amidst  the  maelstrom  of  his  doubts  and  fears  one 
fact  stood  out  so  clearly  that  he  could  not  fail  to  recog- 
nize it.  Not  Violet  alone,  but  some  other  hidden 
personality,  most  earnestly  desired  his  absence  from 
the  flat  that  night.  In  a  word.  Van  Hupfeldt,  who 
knew  of  the  photograph  and  the  letter  being  hidden 
there,  had  the  strongest  possible  reason  for  seeking  an 
opportunity  to  make  an  absolutely  unhindered  search 
of  every  remaining  nook  and  crevice.  But  how  was 
Violet's  anxiety  on  this  head  to  be  explained.?  Was 
she,  too,  wishful  to  carry  out  a  scrutiny  of  pictures, 
cupboards,  and  ornaments  on  her  own  account  ? 

Then,  with  a  sort  of  intuition,  David  felt  that  it  was 
she  who  had  already  visited  her  sister's  latest  abode 
at  such  uncanny  hours  of  gloom  and  mystery  that  her 
presence  had  given  rise  to  the  ghost  legend.  And  with 
the  consciousness  that  this  was  so  came  a  hot  flush  of 
shame  and  remorse  that  he  had  so  vilified  Violet  in 
his  thoughts  on  the  night  of  his  long  run  from  Chal- 
font.  It  was  she  whom  he  had  seen  standing  at  the 
end  of  the  corridor  on  the  first  night  of  his  ever-memor- 
able tenancy  of  this  sorrow-laden  abode,  and,  no 
doubt,  her  earlier  efforts  at  elucidating  the  dim  tragedy 
which  cloaked  her  sister's  death  had  led  to  the  eery 
experiences  of  Miss  L' Estrange  and  Jenny. 

Well,  thank  goodness!  he  held  nearly  all  the  threads 
of  this  dark  business  in  his  hands  now,  and  it  would  go 

253 


The  Late  Tenant 

hard  with  Van  Hupfeldt  if  he  crossed  his  path  that 
nisrht.  For  David  resolved,  with  a  smile  which  had 
in  it  a  mixture  of  grimness  and  tenderness,  that  he 
would  obey  the  letter  of  Violet's  request  while  decidedly 
disobeying  its  spirit.  She  wished  him  to  be  "away 
from  the  flat  between  midnight  and  two  a.m."  Cer- 
tainly he  would  be  away ;  but  not  far  away  —  near 
enough,  indeed,  to  know  who  went  into  it  and  who 
came  out,  and  some  part  of  their  business  there  if  he 
saw  fit.  Violet,  of  course,  might  come  and  go  as  she 
pleased;  not  so  Van  Hupfeldt  or  any  of  his  myrmi- 
dons. 

Thereupon,  determined  to  oppose  guile  to  guile,  he 
dismissed  his  charwoman  long  before  the  usual  time, 
and  called  the  friendly  hall-porter  into  consultation. 

*'  Jim,"  he  said,  when  the  lift  shot  up  to  his  floor  in 
response  to  a  summons,  *'  I  guess  you  want  a  drink." 

Jim  knew  Harcourt's  little  ways  by  this  time.  *'  Well 
sir,"  he  said,  stepping  forth,  and  unshipping  the  motor 
key,  "I'm  bound  to  admit  that  a  slight  lubrikytion 
wouldn't  be  amiss." 

"In  fact,  it  might  be  a  hit,  a  palpable  hit.  Well, 
step  lively.  Here's  the  whisky.  Now,  Jim,  listen 
while  I  talk.  I  understand  there  is  to  be  a  meeting 
of  ghosts  here  to-night  —  no,  not  a  word  yet;  drink 
steadily,  Jim  —  and  it  is  up  to  you  and  me  to  attend 
the  convocation.  There  is  nothing  to  worry  about. 
These  spirits  are  likely  to  be  less  harmful  than  those 
you  are  imbibing ;  indeed,  we  may  be  called  on  to  grab 

254 


David  has  One  Visitor  and  Expects  Others 

one  or  two  of  them,  but  they  will  turn  out  to  be  ordi- 
nary men.     You're  not  afraid  of  a  man,  Jim  ?  " 

"Not  if  'e  is  a  man,  sir.  But  will  there  be  any 
shootin'  ?  " 

"Ah,  you  heard  of  that?" 

"People  will  talk  of  bullet-marks,  sir,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  drops  o'  blood." 

"Drops  of  blood?     Where?" 

"  All  round  our  front  door.  They  wasn't  there  over- 
night, an'  next  day  there  was  a  revolver  bullet  stuck 
in  your  kitchen  skirting-board." 

"  Excellent !  Clear  proof  that  our  sort  of  ghosts  will 
bleed  if  you  punch  them  hard  enough  on  the  nose. 
Now,  I  want  your  help  in  three  ways.  In  the  first 
place,  I  am  going  out  about  seven  and  will  return 
about  nine.  I  want  you  to  make  sure  that  no  one 
enters  my  flat  within  those  hours.  Secondly,  when  I 
come  back,  I  wish  to  reach  this  floor  without  coming 
in  by  the  front  door.  You  understand  ?  If  any  one 
should  be  watching  my  movements,  I  would  like  to  be 
seen  leaving  the  mansions  but  not  returning.  Thirdly, 
I  want  you  to  join  me  on  guard  when  you  close  the 
front  door  at  midnight,  hiding  the  pair  of  us  some- 
where above,  so  that  we  can  see,  without  fear  of  mis- 
take, any  persons  who  may  possess  keys  which  fit 
my  front  door." 

"  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it  ?  "  said  the  porter,  setting  down 
his  glass.  "Well,  I'm  your  man,  sir.  Leave  every- 
thing to  me.     When  you  comes  home  at  nine  just  pop 

255 


The  Late  Tenant 

along  the  other  street  until  you  sees  a  door  leadin'  to  a 
harea.  Drop  down  there,  an'  you'll  find  yourself  in 
our  basement.  At  twelve  sharp  I'll  come  up  in  the  lift 
and  fix  you  up  proper." 

"  Jim,  you're  a  treasure ! "  said  David. 


9.5Q 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  MIDNIGHT  GATHERING 

When  the  train  from  Rigsworth  brought  Violet  into 
Euston  Station,  she  hurried  through  the  barrier  and 
asked  an  official  to  direct  her  to  the  nearest  post- 
office.  At  this  instant  a  slight  accident  happened 
which  had  a  singular  bearing  on  the  events  of  the  day. 
Neil,  the  valet,  who  had  driven  to  Euston  just  in  time 
to  meet  the  incoming  train,  had  seen  her,  and  was 
pressing  in  close  pursuit  when  he  tripped  over  a  lug- 
gage barrow  and  fell  headlong. 

He  was  not  much  injured,  but  shaken  more  than  a 
little,  and  when  he  was  able  to  take  up  the  chase  again, 
Violet  had  vanished.  Hence  she  was  freed  from 
espionage,  and  Van  Hupfeldt  could  only  curse  his 
useless  emissary.  The  man  Neil  certainly  did  rush 
about  like  a  whirlwind  as  soon  as  he  recovered  his 
breath;  but  Violet  was  in  the  post-office  writing  to 
David,  and  securely  hidden  from  his  ferret  eyes. 

Oddly  enough,  the  first  person  she  wished  to  see 
was  Miss  Ermyn  L'Estrange.  She  remembered  the 
actress  well,  as  she  had  visited  her  once  (Jenny,  the 
maid,  was  out  on  an  errand  at  the  time),  and  it  was  one 
of  the   many  curious   discrepancies   in   the  tissue   of 

257 


The  Late  Tenant 

mingled  fact  and  fiction  which  obscured  her  sister's 
fate  that  such  a  volatile  and  talkative  woman  should 
have  written  the  curt  little  note  sent  at  Hupfeldt's 
bidding.  Violet  could  not  understand  the  reason, 
but  she  saw  a  loophole  here.  The  long  journey  in 
the  train  had  enabled  her  to  review  the  information 
she  possessed  with  a  certain  clarity  and  precision 
hitherto  absent  from  her  bewildered  thoughts.  In 
a  word,  there  were  several  marked  lines  of  inquiry, 
and  she  was  resolved  to  follow  each  separately. 

She  felt  that  she  had  gone  the  wrong  way  to  work  in 
the  first  frenzy  of  her  grief.  She  was  calm  now,  more 
skilled  in  hiding  her  suspicion,  less  prone  to  jump  at 
conclusions.  All  unknown  to  her,  the  little  germ  of 
passion  planted  in  her  heart  by  David's  few  words  in 
the  summer-house  was  governing  her  whole  being. 
From  the  timid,  irresolute  girl,  who  clung  to  unattain- 
able ideals,  she  was  transformed  into  a  woman,  ready 
to  dare  anything  for  the  sake  of  the  man  she  loved, 
while  the  mere  notion  of  marriage  with  Van  Hupfeldt 
was  so  loathsome  that  she  was  spurred  into  the  physi- 
cal need  of  strenuous  action  to  counteract  it. 

So  it  was  in  a  restrained  yet  business-like  mood  that 
she  climbed  the  stairs  leading  to  Miss  L'Estrange's 
flat  and  rang  the  electric  bell.  The  door  was  opened 
by  Jenny. 

Not  all  the  resources  of  pert  Cockneyism  availed 
that  hapless  domestic  when  she  set  eyes  on  Miss  Mor- 
daunt.     She  uttered  a  helpless  little  wail  of  dismay, 

258 


The  Midnight  Gathering 

and  retreated  a  few  steps,  as  though  she  half  expected 
the  wonder-stricken  young  woman  to  use  strong 
measures  with  her. 

"Well,  what  is  it  now?"  came  her  mistress's  sharp 
demand,  for  in  that  small  abode  there  reigned  what 
the  Italians  call  "a  delightful  confidence,"  Jenny's 
scream  and  rush  being  audible  in  the  drawing-room. 

"Ow!"  stammered  Jenny,  "it's  a  young  lady,  miss." 

"  A  young  lady  ?     Is  she  nameless  }  " 

"No,"  said  Violet,  advancing  toward  the  voice;  "but 
your  maid  seems  to  be  alarmed  by  the  sight  of  me. 
You  know  me.  Miss  L'Estrange.  I  only  wish  I  had 
discovered  sooner  that  you  employed  my  sister's  ser- 
vant, Sarah  Gissing." 

Ermyn  was  accustomed  to  stage  situations.  She 
instantly  grasped  her  part;  for  she  was  fresh  from  the 
interview  with  David,  and  there  could  be  no  doubt 
that  the  unmasking  of  Van  Hupfeldt  was  as  settled 
now  as  the  third  act  of  the  farcical  comedy  in  which 
she  would  play  the  soubrette  that  night. 

"  Sarah  Gissing ! "  she  said  with  a  fine  scorn.  "  That 
is  not  her  name.  She  is  Jenny  —  Jenny  —  blest  if  I 
have  ever  called  her  anything  else.  Here,  you!  what 
is  your  other  name  ?  " 

"  Blaekey,  miss,"  sobbed  Jenny,  in  tears. 

"But  you  said  only  yesterday  that  you  were  Sarah 
Gissing  ? "  cried  Violet. 

"Y-yus,  miss,  an'  it  wasn't  true." 

"So  you  have  never  seen  my  sister?" 

259 


The  Late  Tenant 

"No,  miss." 

"  Why  did  you  lie  to  me  so  shamelessly  ?  " 

"Please,  miss,  I  was  pide  for  it." 

"  Paid !     By  Mr.  Van  Hupf eldt  ?  " 

"  There  is  some  mistake,"  broke  in  Miss  L'Estrange, 
who  was  a  trifle  awed  by  Violet's  quiet  dignity.  "It 
was  a  Mr.  Strauss  who  came  here  and  asked  permission 
for  Jenny  to  have  the  day  free  yesterday  in  order  to 
give  some  evidence  he  required." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  it  was  Mr.  Strauss  ? "  asked 
Violet,  turning  away  from  Jenny  as  though  the  sight 
of  her  was  offensive. 

"  Positive !  I  rented,  or  rather  I  took  your  sister's  flat 
from  him,  and  he  has  been  plaguing  my  life  out  ever 
since  about  some  papers  he  imagined  I  found  there." 

"But  you  wrote  to  me  a  little  while  ago,"  pleaded 
Violet. 

"Strauss  is  a  plausible  person,"  countered  the  other 
woman  readily.  "  He  came  here  and  spun  such  a  yarn 
that  I  practically  wrote  at  his  dictation." 

"  There  is  no  mistake  this  time,  I  hope." 

Miss  L'Estrange's  color  rose,  and  her  red  hair 
troubled  her  somewhat;  but  she  answered  with  an 
effort :  "  There  has  never  been  any  mistake  on  my  part. 
Had  you  come  to  me  in  the  first  instance,  and  taken  me 
into  your  confidence,  I  would  have  helped  you.  But 
you  stormed  at  me  quite  unjustly.  Miss  Mordaunt, 
and  it  is  not  in  human  nature  to  take  that  sort  of  thing 
lying  down,  you  know." 

260 


The  Midnight  Gathering 

Then,  seeing  the  sorrow  in  Violet's  eyes,  she  went 
on  with  a  real  sympathy:  "I  wish  we  had  been  more 
candid  with  each  other  at  first.  And  I  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  Jenny's  make-believe  of  yesterday. 
The  girl  is  a  first-rate  cook,  but  she  can  tell  lies  faster 
than  a  dog  can  trot." 

This  poetic  simile  popped  out  unawares;  but  Violet 
heard  the  kindly  tone  rather  than  the  words. 

"I  may  want  you  again,"  she  said  simply.  "May 
I  rely  on  you  if  the  need  arises .'' " 

"  Indeed  you  may ! "  was  the  impulsive  reply.  "  I 
have  wept  over  your  sister's  unhappy  fate.  Miss  Mor- 
daunt,  and  I  always  thought  Strauss  was  a  \dllain.  I 
hope  that  nice  young  fellow,  David  Harcourt,  who 
has  been  on  his  track  for  months,  will  catch  him  one 
of  these  days,  and  give  him  a  hiding,  at  the  very  least." 

"Oh,  you  know  Mr.  Harcourt.^" 

And  then  Ermyn  L'Estrange  did  a  thing  which  en- 
nobled her  in  her  owti  eyes  for  many  a  day.  "Yes," 
she  said.  "  He  found  out  that  I  occupied  your  sister's 
flat  after  her  death;  so  he  came  to  see  me,  and,  if  I 
may  venture  to  say  so,  he  betrayed  an  interest  in  you. 
Miss  Mordaunt,  which,  had  such  a  man  sho^sTi  it 
towards  me,  would  have  been  deemed  a  very  pleasing 
and  charming  testimony  of  his  regard." 

It  was  only  a  line  out  of  an  old  play;  but  it  served, 
and  they  kissed  each  other  when  they  said  "  Good-by." 

Although  Violet  was  startled  at  alighting  on  such 
ready  confirmation  of  Van  Hupfeldt's  duplicity,  there 

261 


The  Late  Tenant 

was  a  remarkable  brightness  in  her  eye,  a  spring-time 
elasticity  in  her  step,  when  she  emerged  into  the  High- 
St.  of  Chelsea,  which  had  not  been  visible  a  little  while 
earlier.  In  truth,  she  felt  as  a  thrush  may  be  sup- 
posed to  feel  after  having  successfully  dodged  the 
attack  of  a  hawk.  Were  it  not  that  she  was  treading 
the  crowded  streets  of  London  she  would  have  sung 
for  sheer  joy. 

And  now,  feeling  hungry  after  her  long  journey,  she 
entered  a  restaurant  and  ate  a  good  meal,  which  was 
a  sensible  thing  to  do  in  itself,  but  which,  in  its  way, 
was  another  tiny  factor  in  the  undoing  of  Van  Hup- 
feldt,  as,  thereby,  she  missed  meeting  David  at  Dib- 
bin's  oflBce. 

When  she  did  ultimately  reach  that  unconscious 
rendezvous,  she  found  there  the  clerk  who  had  given 
David  such  interesting  information.  This  man  knew 
Miss  Mordaunt,  and  had  some  recollection  of  the  dead 
Gwendoline;  so  he  was  civil,  and  assured  Violet  that 
his  master  would  return  from  Scotland  that  evening. 

"Mr.  Dibbin  has  been  at  Dundee  for  some  days?" 
asked  Violet. 

"Let  me  see,  miss;  he  went  away  on  the  fourth, 
and  this  is  the  ninth;  practically  six  days,  counting  the 
journeys." 

"  Then  he  certainly  could  not  have  written  to  me  on 
the  seventh  from  London  ? " 

The  clerk  was  puzzled.  "  If  you  mean  that  he  wasn't 
in  London,  then  — "  he  began. 

262 


The  Midnight  Gathering 

Violet  did  not  show  the  man  the  letter  which  she 
had  in  her  pocket.  Perhaps  it  was  best  that  Dibbin 
himself  should  read  it  first.  But  she  did  say:  "He 
could  not  have  had  an  interview  with  a  Mr.  Van  Hup- 
feldt,  for  instance.^" 

"Now,  that  is  very  odd,  miss,"  said  the  clerk. 
"That  is  the  very  name  of  the  gentleman  who  wired 
instructions  to-day  for  Mr.  Dibbin  to  go  at  once  to 
Portsmouth.  And,  by  Jove!  begging  your  pardon,  but 
the  telegram  came  from  your  place,  Rigs  worth,  in 
Warwickshire.     I  never  thought  of  that  before." 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Violet,  sweetly;  "I  shall 
endeavor  to  meet  Mr.  Dibbin  at  King's  Cross.  And 
will  you  please  not  mention  to  any  one  that  I  have 
called  here.^" 

The  knowledge  that  Van  Hupfeldt  was  striving  to 
decoy  Dibbin  away  from  London  revealed  that  the 
pursuit  had  begun.  For  an  instant  she  was  tempted 
to  appeal  to  David  for  help.  But  she  had  given  her 
word  not  to  see  him,  and  that  was  sacred,  even  in 
relation  to  one  whom  she  considered  to  be  the  worst 
man  breathing. 

The  clerk  promised  readily  enough  to  observe  due 
discretion  anent  her  visit.  He  would  have  promised 
nearly  anything  that  such  a  nice-looking  girl  sought 
of  him.  Suddenly  Violet  recollected  that  the  house- 
agent  might  know  the  whereabouts  of  the  real  Sarah 
Gissing.  She  asked  the  question,  and,  Dibbin  being 
a  man  of  dockets  and  pigeon  holes,  the  clerk  found  the 

263 


The  Late  Tenant 

address  for  her  in  half  a  minute,  told  her  where  Chal- 
font  was,  looked  up  the  next  train  from  Baker-St,  and 
sent  her  on  her  way  rejoicing. 

Violet,  like  the  majority  of  her  charming  sex,  paid 
small  heed  to  time,  and,  indeed,  time  frequently  re- 
turns the  compliment  to  pretty  women.  It  was  five 
hours  ere  Dibbin  was  due  at  King's  Cross,  and  five 
hours  were  sufficient  for  almost  any  undertaking.  So 
she  journeyed  to  Chalfont,  found  the  genuine  Sarah, 
and  was  alarmed  and  reassured  at  the  same  time  by 
the  girl  nearly  fainting  away  when  she  set  eyes  on  her. 

Here,  then,  at  last,  was  real  news  of  her  Gwen.  She 
could  have  listened  for  hours.  The  landlady  of  the 
little  hotel  charitably  let  the  two  talk  their  fill,  and 
sent  tea  to  them  in  the  small  parlor  where  David  had 
met  Sarah.  Like  David,  too,  whom  Sarah  did  not 
forget  to  describe  as  "  that  nice  young  gentleman,  Mr. 
Harcourt,"  Violet  outstayed  the  train  time,  and, 
when  she  did  make  an  inquiry  on  this  head,  it  was  im- 
possible to  reach  King's  Cross  at  six-thirty  p.m. 

Amid  all  the  tears  and  poignancy  of  grief  aroused 
by  the  recital  of  her  sister's  lonely  life  and  tragic  end, 
there  was  one  strange,  unaccountable  feature  which 
stood  out  boldly.  Neither  by  direct  word  nor  veiled 
inference  did  Sarah  Gissing  attribute  deliberate  neglect 
or  unkindness  to  Strauss.  If  anything,  her  simple 
story  told  of  a  great  love  between  those  two,  and  there 
was  the  evidence  of  it  in  Gwendoline's  latest  distracted 
words   about  him.     Of  course,   had  Violet  read   the 

264 


The  Midnight  Gathering 

diary,  this  would  have  been  clear  enough;  but,  in  view 
of  the  man's  present  attitude,  this  testimony  of  the 
servant's  was  hard  to  understand. 

At  any  rate,  Violet,  sure  now  beyond  the  reach  of 
doubt  that  Van  Hupfeldt  was  Strauss,  and  that  he 
was  engaged  in  an  incomprehensible  conspiracy,  never- 
theless felt  a  sensible  softening  toward  him.  Perhaps 
her  escape  from  the  threatened  marriage  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  this;  and  then,  the  man  seemed  to 
have  almost  worshiped  Gwen. 

Assuredly  the  gods,  meaning  to  destroy  Van  Hup- 
feldt, first  decided  to  make  him  mad.  When  he 
reached  Dibbin's  office,  the  clerk  recognized  him  as 
Strauss,  and  was  rendered  suspicious  by  his  reappear- 
ance, after  this  long  time,  within  an  hour  of  Violet's 
call,  seeing  that  the  first  person  he  inquired  about  was 
Violet  herself.  Hence,  being  of  the  same  mind  as 
Miss  Ermyn  L' Estrange  as  to  the  secret  of  success  in 
London  life,  he  failed  to  recognize  any  young  lady 
named  Mordaunt  as  among  the  list  of  Dibbin's  visitors 
that  day.  Further,  when  Van  Hupfeldt,  goaded  to 
extremities,  was  fain  to  confess  that  it  was  he  who  had 
telegraphed  from  Rigsworth,  the  clerk  became  obtuse 
on  the  matter  of  his  employer's  whereabouts.  All  he 
could  say  definitely  was  that  Dibbin  would  be  in  his 
office  next  morning  at  ten  o'clock. 

The  outcome  of  these  cross  purposes,  seeing  that 
David  was  in  no  hurry  to  meet  the  agent,  was  that 
Dibbin  met  only  the  clerk  at  King's  Cross,  and  had  a 

^^5 


The  Late  Tenant 

mysterious  story  poured  into  his  ear,  together  with  a 
bag  of  gold  placed  in  his  hands,  as  he  tackled  a  chop 
prior  to  catching  a  train  for  the  home  of  the  Dibbins  at 
Surbiton. 

Van  Hupfeldt  took  Mrs.  Mordaunt  to  her  old  resi- 
dence at  Porchester  Gardens,  enjoining  her  not  to  say 
a  word  to  Mrs.  Harrod  about  Violet's  escapade. 

That  was  asking  too  much  of  a  mother  who  had  en- 
dured such  heart-searchings  during  a  day  of  misery. 
Not  even  the  glamour  of  a  wealthy  marriage  could 
blind  Mrs.  Mordaunt  to  certain  traits  in  his  character 
which  the  stress  of  fear  had  brought  to  the  surface. 
She  began  to  ask  herself  if,  after  all,  Violet  were  not 
right  in  her  dread  of  the  man.  She  was  afraid  of  she 
knew  not  what;  so  kind-hearted  Mrs.  Harrod's  first 
natural  question  as  to  Violet's  well-being  drew  a  flood 
of  tears  and  a  resultant  outpouring  of  the  whole  tragedy. 
But,  lo  and  behold!  Mrs.  Harrod  had  dreamed  of 
clear  water  and  a  trotting  horse  the  previous  night, 
and  this  combination  was  irresistible  in  its  excellence 
on  behalf  of  her  friends.  Mrs.  Harrod's  prophetic 
dreams  were  always  vicarious;  her  own  fortunes  were 
fixed  —  so  much  jper  annum  earned  by  keeping  a  first- 
rate  private  hotel. 

The  manifold  attractions  of  town  life  did  not  suffice 
to  while  away  the  weary  hours  of  that  evening  for  at 
least  three  people  in  London.  Violet,  returning  from 
Chalfont,  took  a  room  in  the  Great  Western  Hotel  at 
Paddington,   and,   when   asked   to   sign   the   register, 

266 


The  Midnight  Gathering 

obeyed  some  unaccountable  impulse  by  writing  "  Miss 
Barnes."  It  gave  her  a  thrill  to  see  poor  Gwendo- 
line's nom  de  theatre  thus  resurrected,  and  there  was 
something  uncanny  in  the  incident  too;  but  she  was 
aroused  by  the  hotel  clerk's  respectful  inquiry  if  she 
had  any  luggage. 

"No,"  she  said,  somewhat  embarrassed;  "but  I  will 
pay  for  my  room  in  advance,  if  you  wish." 

"That  is  not  necessary,  madam,  thank  you,"  was 
the  answer;  so  Violet,  unconscious  of  the  trust  reposed 
in  her  appearance,  took  her  key  and  went  to  rest  a 
little  before  undertaking  the  last  task  she  had  set  her- 
self. She  carried  in  her  hand  some  violets  which  she 
had  bought  from  a  poor  woman  outside  the  hotel. 

Van  Hupfeldt,  tortured  by  want  of  knowledge  of  the 
actions  of  those  in  whom  he  was  most  interested,  was 
compelled  to  enlist  Neil's  services  again  after  reviling 
him.  The  valet  went  openly  to  Eddystone  Mansions 
and  inquired  for  Harcourt. 

"  He's  bin  aht  all  d'y,"  said  Jim  the  porter,  speculat- 
ing on  Neil's  fighting  weight,  if  he  was  one  of  the 
ghosts  to  be  laid  after  midnight. 

Neil  brought  back  this  welcome  information,  and 
Van  Hupfeldt  hoped  uneasily  that  his  ruse  had  been 
successful.  If  it  had,  David  would  be  somewhere 
near  Birmingham,  and  would  there  await  a  message 
from  Violet,  which  Van  Hupfeldt  would  take  care  he 
received  next  day. 

As  for  David,  he  smoked  and  mused  in  Hyde  Park 

267 


The  Late  Tenant 

until  after  night  had  fallen.  Then  he  returned  to  his 
abode  by  the  way  indicated  by  the  porter,  and  smoked 
again  in  the  dark,  and  without  a  fire,  until  a  few  minutes 
after  midnight,  when  he  heard  the  clank  of  the  ascend- 
ing lift,  followed  by  a  ring  at  the  door.  In  case  of 
accident,  he  had  his  revolver  in  his  pocket  this  time; 
moreover,  his  right  hand  was  ready  when  he  opened 
the  door  with  his  left. 

But  it  was  his  ally;  Jim  pointed  to  the  lift  with  a 
grin.  "Everybody  else  is  in,  sir,"  he  said.  *' Just 
step  in  there  an'  I'll  take  you  to  the  next  floor.  We'll 
switch  off  the  light  inside,  but  leave  it  on  here  as  usual. 
Then  we  can  see  a  mouse  comin'  up  the  stairs  if  need 
be,  an'  there's  no  other  way  in,  unless  a  real  ghost  turns 
up." 

They  took  up  their  position,  leaving  the  door  of  the 
lift  open.  Thus  they  could  step  out  without  noise  if 
necessary.  They  had  not  long  to  wait.  Scarcely  five 
minutes  had  elapsed  before  the  porter,  with  an  ear 
trained  to  the  noises  of  the  building,  whispered  eagerly : 

*'  Some  one  has  just  closed  the  front  door,  sir." 

They  heard  ascending  footsteps.  It  was  Van  Hup- 
feldt,  panting,  darting  quick  glances  at  shadows,  has- 
tening up  the  stairs  with  a  sort  of  felon  fright.  In 
front  of  No.  7  he  paused  and  Hstened.  Apparently  not 
daring  to  risk  everything,  he  rang  the  bell;  he  had  not 
forgotten  that  a  bullet  had  seared  his  leg  at  one  of  his 
unauthorized  visits.  Again  he  listened,  being  evi- 
dently  ready   for  flight  if  he  heard  any   answering 

268 


The  Midnight  Gathering 

sound.  Then,  finding  all  safe,  he  produced  a  key, 
entered,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"  Well,  I'm  —  "  began  the  porter,  in  a  tense  whisper, 
this  unlawful  entry  being  a  sacrilege  to  him. 

But  David  said  in  his  ear:  "Let  him  alone;  we  have 
him  bottled." 

Nevertheless,  seeing  that  Violet  had  undoubtedly 
stated  her  intent  (or  it  seemed  like  that)  to  visit  the 
flat  that  night,  he  began  to  consider  what  he  should  do 
if  she  put  in  an  appearance.  What  would  happen  if 
she  unexpectedly  encountered  Van  Hupfeldt  within  ? 
That  must  be  provided  for.  The  unforeseen  difficulty 
was  an  instance  of  the  poverty  of  man's  judgment 
where  the  future  is  concerned.  In  keeping  his  implied 
promise  to  Violet,  he  would  expose  her  to  grave  peril; 
for,  in  David's  view,  Van  Hupfeldt  had  done  her  sister 
to  death  in  that  same  place,  and  there  was  no  knowing 
what  the  crime  a  man  in  desperate  straits  would  commit. 
David  was  sure  now  that,  actuated  by  widely  different 
motives,  both  Van  Hupfeldt  and  Violet  were  bent  on 
searching  for  the  photograph  and  letter  reposing 
securely  in  his  own  pocket.  He  smiled  grimly  as  he 
thought  of  that  which  Van  Hupfeldt  would  find,  but, 
obviously,  he  ought  to  warn  Violet  beforehand.  Or 
would  it  suffice  if  he  followed  quickly  after  her,  thus 
giving  her  the  opportunity  of  scaring  Van  Hupfeldt 
into  the  right  mood  to  confess  everything.? 

There  was  a  slight  risk  in  that;  but  it  seemed  to  offer 
the  best  solution  of  a  difficulty,  and  it  would  avoid  the 

269 


The  Late  Tenant 

semblance  of  collusion  between  them,  which  Van  Hup- 
feldt  was  adroit  enough  to  take  advantage  of.  So, 
when  Violet  did  run  lightly  up  the  stairs,  though  his 
heart  beat  with  joy  at  the  sight  of  her,  he  restrained 
himself  until  she  had  opened  the  door.  She  applied 
her  key  without  hesitation. 

"  She  trusts  in  me  fully,  then ! "  thought  David,  with  a 
pang  of  regret  that  he  should  be  compelled  now  to 
disobey  her. 

He  gripped  the  porter's  arm  as  he  stepped  noise- 
lessly out  on  to  the  landing  above,  and  thus  lost  sight 
of  Violet.  The  man  followed,  and  David,  leaning  over 
the  stair-rail,  saw  the  door  of  his  flat  close.  He  had 
never  before  realized  how  quietly  that  door  might  be 
closed  if  due  care  was  taken.  Even  his  keen  ears 
heard  no  sound  whatever. 

And  then  he  heard  that  which  sent  the  blood  in  a 
furious  race  from  his  brain  to  his  heart  and  back  to  his 
brain  again.  For  there  came  from  within  a  cry  as  from 
some  beast  in  pain,  and,  quickly  following,  the  shriek 
of  a  woman  in  mortal  fear. 

David  waited  for  no  key-turning.  He  dashed  in  the 
lock  with  his  foot  and  entered.  The  first  thing  that 
greeted  his  disordered  senses  was  the  odor  of  violets 
which  came  to  him,  fresh  and  pungent,  with  an  eery 
reminiscence  of  the  night  he  thought  he  saw  the  spec- 
tral embodiment  of  dead  Gwendoline. 


270 


CHAPTER  XXII 

VAN  HUPFELDT  MAKES  AMENDS 

Violet's  first  act,  on  entering  the  hall,  had  been  to 
turn  on  the  light.  She  did  this  without  giving  a  thought 
to  the  possibility  of  disturbing  some  prior  occupant. 
The  day's  events  demonstrated  how  completely  David 
was  worthy  of  faith;  she  was  assured  that  he  would 
obey  the  behest  in  her  letter.  How  much  better  would 
it  have  been  had  she  trusted  intuition  in  the  first  in- 
stance ! 

But  it  chanced  that  David  had  written  a  little  note 
to  her,  on  an  open  sheet  of  paper,  which  he  pinned  to 
the  table-cloth  in  the  dining-room  in  such  a  position 
that  she  could  not  fail  to  see  it  when  there  was  a  light. 
And  this  note,  headed  "To  Violet,"  contained  the 
fateful  message: 

I  have  found  the  photograph  of  Strauss,  or  Van  Hupfeldt,  and 

with  it  the  letter  in  which  he  announced  to  your  sister  that  he  was 

already  married  to  another  woman.  ,-. 

David. 

Van  Hupfeldt,  of  course,  had  seen  this  thrice-con- 
vincing and  accusing  document,  which  proved  not 
only  that  he  and  his  secret  were  in  David's  power, 
but  that  David  had  expected  Violet  to  visit  his  dwell- 

271 


The  Late  Tenant 

ing.  He  was  sitting  at  the  table  in  a  stupor  of  rage 
and  terror,  when  he  fancied  he  heard  a  rustUng  in  the 
outer  passage.  Beside  himself  with  anger  at  the 
threatened  downfall  of  his  cardboard  castle,  strung  to 
a  state  of  high  nervous  tension  by  the  horror  he  had  of 
that  abode  of  dreadful  memories,  he  half  turned  toward 
the  door,  which  had  swung  back  almost  into  its  place. 

Through  the  chink  he  noticed  an  exterior  radiance; 
nevertheless,  he  paid  no  heed  to  it,  although  his  wearied 
brain  seemed  to  remind  him  that  he  had  not  left  a  light 
in  the  corridor.  Yet  again  he  heard  another  rustle, 
as  of  a  woman's  garments.  This  time  he  sprang  up, 
with  the  madness  of  hysteria  in  his  eyes;  he  tore  open 
the  door,  and  saw  Violet  near  to  him.  She,  noting  the 
movement  of  the  door,  stood  stock-still  with  surprise 
and  some  fear,  ungovernable  emotions  which  un- 
doubtedly gave  a  touch  of  wan  tragedy  to  her  expres- 
sion. Moreover,  the  glow  of  the  hall  lamp  was  now 
behind  her,  and  her  features  were  somewhat  in  gloom; 
so  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  Van  Hupfeldt, 
with  his  conscience  on  the  rack,  thought  he  was  actually 
looking  at  the  embodied  spirit  of  Gwendoline.  He 
expected  to  see  the  dead  woman,  and  he  was  far  too 
unhinged  to  perceive  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  a 
living  one. 

He  threw  up  his  arms,  uttered  that  horrible  screech 
which  had  reached  the  ears  of  David  and  the  porter, 
and  collapsed  limply  to  the  floor,  whence,  from  his 
knees,  while  he  sank  slowly,  he  gazed  at  the  frightened 

272 


Van  Hupfeldt  Makes  Amends 

girl  with  such  an  awful  look  of  a  doomed  man  that  she, 
in  turn,  screamed  aloud.  Then  she  saw  a  thin  stream 
of  blood  issuing  from  between  his  pallid  lips,  and,  the 
strain  being  too  great,  she  fainted;  so  that  David, 
after  bursting  in  the  door  and  finding  the  two  bodies 
prostrate,  one  on  each  side  of  the  entrance  to  the 
dining-room,  imagined  for  one  agonizing  second  that 
another  and  more  ghastly  crime  had  been  enacted  in 
those  haunted  chambers. 

He  lifted  Violet  tenderly  in  his  arms,  and  guessed 
at  once  that  she  had  been  overcome  by  the  sight  of 
Van  Hupfeldt,  who,  at  the  first  glance,  seemed  to  have 
inflicted  some  mortal  injury  on  himself. 

The  hall-porter,  aghast  at  the  discovery  of  two 
people  apparently  dead  whom  he  had  seen  alive  a  few 
minutes  earlier,  kept  his  wits  sufficiently  together  to 
stoop  over  Van  Hupfeldt;  then  he,  too,  noticed  the 
blood  welling  forth.  "  It's  all  right,  sir,"  cried  he,  in 
a  queer,  cracked  voice  to  David;  "this  here  gent  has 
on'y  broke  a  blood-vessel!" 

David  said  something  which  had  better  be  forgotten ; 
just  then  Violet,  who  was  not  at  all  of  the  lymphatic 
order,  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him. 

*'  Thank  God ! "  he  whispered,  close  to  her  Hps,  and 
she,  scarce  comprehending  her  whereabouts  yet,  made 
a  brave  effort  to  smile  at  him. 

He  had  carried  her  into  the  little  drawing-room, 
and  he  now  placed  her  in  a  chair.  "Have  no  fear," 
he  said.     "  I  am  here.     I  shall  not  leave  you." 

273 


The  Late  Tenant 

He  ran  to  the  door.  "If  that  man's  condition  is 
serious,  you  had  better  summon  a  doctor,"  he  cried 
to  the  porter,  whom  he  saw  engaged  in  the  effort  to 
prop  Van  Hupfeldt's  body  against  a  chair.  David 
was  pitiless,  perhaps;  he  had  not  recovered  from  the 
shock  of  finding  Violet  lying  prostrate. 

"  He  mustn't  be  allowed  to  fall  down,  sir,"  said  Jim, 
anxiously,  "or  he  will  choke.  I've  seen  a  kise  like 
this  before." 

David,  though  quickly  subsiding  from  his  ferment, 
was  divided  between  the  claims  of  Violet  and  the 
demands  of  humanity.  Personally,  he  thought  that 
the  Dutchman  would  be  no  loss  to  the  world;  but 
the  man  was  helpless.  And  now  Violet,  recovering 
strength  and  recollection  with  each  more  regular 
breath,  knew  what  had  happened.  She  stood  up 
tremblingly. 

"  Let  us  go  to  him,"  she  said,  with  the  fine  chivalry 
of  woman,  and  soon,  kneeling  on  each  side  of  Van 
Hupfeldt,  they  supported  him,  and  endeavored  to 
stanch  the  outpouring  from  his  lips. 

The  porter  hurried  away.  David,  wondering  what 
to  do  for  the  best,  held  his  enemy's  powerless  body  a 
little  inclined  forward,  and  asked  Violet  if  she  would 
bring  a  wet  towel  from  the  bath-room.  She  did  this  at 
once,  and  wrapped  it  round  Van  Hupfeldt's  forehead. 
The  relief  thus  afforded  was  effective,  and  the  flow  of 
blood  had  ceased  when  the  porter  returned  with  a 
doctor  who  lived  in  the  next  block  of  dwellings. 

274 


Van  Hupfeldt  Makes  Amends 

The  doctor  made  light  of  the  hemorrhage;  but  he 
detected  a  pulse  which  made  him  look  up  at  the  others 
gravely. 

"  This  is  a  bad  case  of  heart  failure,"  he  said.  *'  The 
rupture  of  a  blood-vessel  is  a  mere  symptom.  Has  he 
had  a  sudden  shock  ?  " 

"I  fear  so,"  said  David.  "What  can  we  do  for 
him  ? " 

"Nothing,  at  present,"  was  the  ominous  answer. 
"I  dread  even  the  necessity  of  moving  him  to  a  bed- 
room. Certainly  he  cannot  be  taken  elsewhere.  Is 
he  a  friend  of  yours.?  I  understand  he  does  not  live 
here." 

David  was  saved  from  the  difficulty  of  answering 
by  a  feeble  indication  of  Van  Hupfeldt's  wish  to  speak. 
The  doctor  gave  him  some  water,  then  a  little  weak 
brandy  and  water.  Violet  again  helped  David  to 
hold  him,  and  the  unfortunate  man,  seemingly  recog- 
nizing her,  now  turned  his  head  toward  her. 

"Forgive  me!"  he  whispered,  with  the  labored  dis- 
tinctness of  one  who  speaks  with  the  utmost  effort. 
"  I  have  deceived  you  vilely.  I  wished  to  make  repara- 
tion." 

"  I  think  I  know  all  you  wish  to  tell  me,"  said  Violet, 
bravely,  "  and,  even  so,  I  am  sorry  for  you." 

"  You  heard  what  the  doctor  said  ?  "  he  muttered. 

"  Yes,  but  you  will  recover.  Don't  try  to  talk.  You 
must  calm  yourself.     Then  the  doctor  will  help." 

"  I  know  more  than  he  knows  of  my  own  condition. 

275 


The  Late  Tenant 

I  am  dying.  I  shall  be  dead  in  a  few  minutes.  It  is 
only  just.  I  shall  die  here,  where  Gwen  died  —  my 
Gwen,  whom  I  loved  more  than  my  own  soul.  May 
God  forgive  —  " 

"Oh,  don't!"  cried  Violet,  brokenly;  the  presence 
of  gray  death,  that  last  and  greatest  adjuster  of  wrong, 
obliterated  many  a  bitter  vow  and  stifled  the  cry  for 
vengeance  in  her. 

*'It  is  just,'*  he  whispered  again.  "I  killed  her  by 
that  letter.  And  now  she  has  summoned  me  to  the 
grave,  she  who  gave  her  life  to  shield  me.  Ah!  what 
a  punishment  was  mine!  when  I  flew  here  from  Paris 
to  tell  her  that  all  was  well,  and  arrived  only  in  time  to 
see  her  die!  She  died  in  my  arms,  just  as  I  am  dying 
in  yours,  Vi!  But  she  suffered,  and  I,  who  deserve 
all  the  suffering,  am  falling  away  without  pain." 

Truly,  he  seemed  to  gain  strength  as  he  spoke;  he 
still  fancied  he  had  seen  Gwendoline;  the  gathering 
mists  clouded  his  brain  to  that  extent. 

Violet's  eyes  were  dim  with  tears;  her  lips  trembled 
so  that  she  scarce  could  utter  a  word.  The  doctor, 
who  was  watching  Van  Hupfeldt  narrowly,  said  to  her 
in  a  low  tone:     *'Take  my  advice,  and  leave  us  now." 

But  Van  Hupfeldt  heard  him,  and  roused  himself 
determinedly  for  a  final  effort.  Yet  he  spoke  with 
difficulty  and  brokenly.  "  I  escaped  down  the  service- 
lift  that  night  —  once  again  when  Harcourt  shot  at  me. 
I  only  wished  to  atone,  Vi !  I  made  my  will  —  you 
know  —  the   lawyers   will   explain.     The   boy  —  Mrs. 

276 


Van  Hupfeldt  Makes  Amends 

Carter  —  New  Street,  Birmingham.  See  to  the  boy, 
Vi,  for  Gwen's  sake.     Ah,  God!  for  her  sake!" 

And  that  was  all. 

Violet,  weeping  bitterly,  was  led  away.  From  over 
the  mantelpiece  the  wild  eyes  of  a  portrait  in  chalk 
of  a  beautiful  woman  looked  down  in  pity,  it  may  be, 
on  the  dead  face  of  the  man  lying  on  the  floor.  And 
so  ended  the  sad  love  story  of  Henry  Van  Hupfeldt 
and  Gwendoline  Mordaunt.  In  the  street  beneath, 
hansoms  were  jingling  along,  bringing  people  home 
from  the  restaurants.  London  recked  little  of  the  last 
scene  of  one  of  its  many  dramas. 

Yet  it  had  its  sequel  in  life  and  love,  for  Violet  and 
her  mother,  as  the  result  of  a  telegram  to  Birmingham, 
took  into  their  arms  a  happy  and  crowing  infant,  a 
fine  baby  boy  who  won  his  way  to  their  hearts  by  his 
instant  readiness  to  be  fondled  by  them,  and  who  re- 
tained his  place  in  their  affections  by  the  likeness  he 
bore  to  his  dead  mother;  though  his  hair  was  dark, 
and  he  promised  to  have  the  Spanish  profile  of  his 
father,  his  eyes  were  Gwen's  blue  ones,  and  his  lips 
parted  in  the  merry  smile  they  knew  so  well. 

But  that  was  next  day,  when  the  fount  of  tears  was 
nearly  dry,  and  the  shudderings  of  the  night  had 
passed.  Lucky  it  was  for  Violet  that  David  was  near. 
What  would  have  become  of  her  had  she  regained  her 
senses  and  found  herself  alone  in  the  flat,  alone  with  a 
dead  man  ? 

David,   somewhat   hardened   by   his   career   in   the 

277 


The  Late  Tenant 

turbulent  West,  quickly  hit  upon  a  line  of  action. 
The  doctor,  a  good  soul,  volunteered  to  drive  to  Van 
Hupfeldt's  residence  and  summon  Neil,  who  would 
probably  bear  the  porter  company  during  a  night 
vigil  in  the  flat.  David,  therefore,  made  Violet  drink 
a  little  brandy,  and,  talking  steadily  the  while,  com- 
pelling occasional  answers  to  his  questions,  he  led  her 
to  a  cab,  which  he  directed  to  Porchester  Gardens. 
He  knew  that  in  Mrs.  Harrod  she  would  find  a  friend, 
and  it  was  an  added  relief  to  him  to  discover,  after 
repeated  ringing  had  brought  a  servant  to  the  door, 
that  Mrs.  Mordaunt  was  there,  too. 

To  save  Violet  the  undue  strain  of  an  explanation, 
he  asked  that  her  mother  might  be  aroused.  There 
was  no  need  for  that.  She  was  down-stairs  promptly, 
having  heard  the  imperative  bell,  certain  that  news 
of  Violet  was  to  hand. 

So  he  told  of  the  night's  doings  to  a  tearful  and  per- 
plexed woman  who  had  never  previously  set  eyes  on 
him,  and  it  was  three  o'clock  ere  he  turned  his  face 
toward  Eddystone  Mansions  again.  Arrived  there, 
he  found  that  the  porter  and  Neil  had  carried  the 
unfortunate  Van  Hupfeldt  to  the  room  in  which  Gwen- 
doline died.  That  was  chance;  it  must  have  been 
something  more  than  chance  which  caused  David  to 
pick  up  the  bunch  of  violets,  torn  from  the  breast  of 
their  wearer  when  she  fell  in  a  faint,  and  place  them 
on  the  pillow  near  the  pallid  head.  David  was  sorry 
for  the  man,  after  all. 

278 


Van  Hupfcldt  Makes  Amends 

In  one  matter,  the  sorely  tried  mother  and  daughter 
were  fortunate;  there  was  no  inquest.  The  doctor 
who  was  present  at  Van  Hupfeldt's  death,  after  con- 
sulting the  coroner  and  a  West  End  specialist  who  had 
warned  the  sufferer  of  his  dangerous  state,  was  able  to 
give  a  burial  certificate  in  due  form.  Thus  all  scandal 
and  sensation-mongering  were  avoided.  The  inter- 
ment took  place  in  Kensal  Green  cemetery.  Van 
Hupfeldt's  mortal  remains  were  laid  to  rest  near  to 
those  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

Violet  was  his  sole  heiress  under  the  will  he  had 
executed.  A  sealed  letter,  attached  by  him  to  that 
document,  explained  his  motive.  In  case  of  accident 
prior  to  the  contemplated  marriage,  he  thereby  sur- 
mounted the  legal  difficulty  and  inevitable  exposure 
of  pro\^ding  for  the  child.  He  asked  Violet  to  take 
the  requisite  steps  to  administer  the  estate,  bidding 
her  reserve  a  capital  sum  sufficient  to  provide  the  ten 
thousand  pounds  per  annum  given  her  by  the  marriage 
settlement,  and  set  apart  the  residue,  under  trustees, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  boy. 

At  first  she  refused  to  touch  a  penny  of  the  money; 
but  wiser  counsels  prevailed.  There  would  not  only 
be  a  serious  tangle  in  the  business  if  she  declined  the 
bequest,  but  Van  Hupfeldt  was  so  rich  that  nearly  five 
times  the  amount  was  left  for  the  child,  the  value  of 
the  estate  being  considerably  over  a  million  sterling. 

The  requisite  investigation  of  the  sources  of  his 
wealth  cleared  up  a  good  deal  that  was  previously 

279 


The  Late  Tenant 

obscure.  Undoubtedly  he  had  been  helped  in  his 
early  career,  that  of  a  musician,  by  a  Mrs.  Strauss, 
widow  of  a  California  merchant.  She  educated  him, 
and,  yielding  to  a  foolish  passion,  offered  to  make  him 
her  heir  if  he  married  her  and  assumed  the  name  of 
Strauss,  she  having  already  attained  some  notoriety  in 
Continental  circles  under  that  designation.  She  was 
a  malade  imaginaire,  in  the  sense  that  she  would  seldom 
reside  more  than  a  few  weeks  in  any  one  place,  while 
she  positively  detested  both  England  and  America. 

He  was  kind  to  her,  and  she  was  devoted  to  him; 
but  unUmited  wealth  cloyed  when  it  involved  constant 
obedience  to  her  whims.  Yet,  rather  than  lose  him 
altogether,  she  agreed  to  his  occasional  visits  to  Eng- 
land during  the  season,  and  when  hunting  was  toward. 
Eager  to  shake  off  the  thraldom  of  the  Strauss  regime, 
he  then  invariably  passed  under  his  real  name  of  Van 
Hupfeldt. 

Hence,  when  he  fell  in  love  with  Gwendoline,  and 
resolved  to  make  her  his  in  defiance  of  all  social  law, 
he  was  obliged  to  tell  her  that  he  was  also  Johann 
Strauss,  and  under  an  obligation  to  the  Mrs.  Strauss 
who  had  adopted  him.  Gwendoline's  diary,  which, 
with  the  certificates,  was  found  in  a  bureau,  became 
clear  enough  when  annotated  with  these  facts.  Van 
Hupfeldt  himself  left  the  fewest  possible  papers,  the 
letter  accompanying  the  will  merely  setting  forth  his 
wishes,  and  announcing  that  he  desired  to  marry 
Violet  as  an  act  of  reparation  to  the  memory  of  her 

280 


Van  Hupfeldt  Makes  Amends 

sister.  This  had  become  a  mania  with  him.  The 
unhappy  man  thought  that,  this  way,  he  could  win 
forgiveness. 

And  then  the  bright  world  became  a  Valley  of  De- 
spair for  David  Harcourt.  During  many  a  bitter  hour 
he  lamented  Van  Hupfeldt's  death.  Alive,  he  was  a 
rival  to  be  fought  and  conquered;  dead,  he  had  inter- 
posed that  insurmountable  barrier  of  great  wealth 
between  Violet  and  one  who  was  sick  for  love  of  her. 
Poor  David!  He  sought  refuge  in  work,  and  found  his 
way  up  some  rungs  of  the  literary  ladder;  but  he  could 
neither  forget  his  Violet  nor  follow  her  to  Dale  Manor, 
the  inaccessible,  fenced  in  now  by  a  wall  of  gold. 

Once,  he  was  in  a  hansom  on  the  way  to  Euston, 
telling  himself  he  was  going  to  Rigsworth  to  give  the 
gamekeeper  that  promised  licking;  but  he  stopped  the 
cab  and  returned,  saying  bitterly:  *'Why  am  I  trying 
to  fool  myself  ?  That  is  not  the  David  of  my  acquaint- 
ance." 

So  he  went  back,  calling  in  at  a  florist's  and  buying 
a  huge  bowlful  of  violets,  thinking  to  reach  Nirvana 
by  their  scent,  and  thereby  humbugging  himself  so 
egregiously  that  he  was  in  despondent  mood  when  he 
sat  down  to  a  lonely  tea  in  his  flat.  He  had  not  seen 
or  heard  of  Violet  in  three  long  months,  not  since  he 
took  Mrs.  Mordaunt  and  her  to  the  train  for  War- 
wickshire, and,  walking  afterward  with  Dibbin  from 
the  station,  learned  the  fateful  news  of  her  intolerable 
inheritance. 

281 


The  Late  Tenant 

He  had  promised  to  write,  but  he  had  not  written. 
What  was  he  to  say  ?  That  he  still  loved  her,  although 
she  was  rich?  Perhaps  he  dreamed  that  she  would 
write  to  him.  But  no;  silence  was  the  steady  scheme 
of  things  —  and  work,  fourteen  hours  a  day  work  as 
the  solatium,  until  his  bronzed  face  began  to  take  on 
the  student's  cast,  and  he  wondered,  at  times,  if  he  had 
ever  caught  and  saddled  a  bronco,  or  slept  under  the 
stars.     Or  was  it  all  a  dream? 

Wanting  some  bread,  and  being  alone,  the  char- 
woman having  believed  his  statement  that  he  would 
be  away  until  next  midday,  he  went  into  the  kitchen. 
It  was  now  high  summer;  hot,  with  the  stable-like  heat 
of  London,  and  the  kitchen  window  was  wide  open. 
Some  impulse  prompted  him  to  look  out  and  examine 
the  service-lift  by  way  of  which  Van  Hupfeldt  had 
twice  quitted  the  flat,  once  when  driven  by  mad  fear 
of  being  held  guilty  of  Gwendoline's  death,  and  again 
to  save  his  life  from  David's  revolver. 

Given  a  steady  brain  and  some  little  athletic  skill, 
the  feat  was  easy  enough.  All  that  was  needed  was 
to  cling  to  two  greasy  iron  uprights  and  slide  from  one 
floor  to  the  next,  where  cross-bars  marked  the  different 
stories  and  provided  halting-places  for  the  lift.  It  was 
typical  of  Van  Hupfeldt  that  he  had  the  nerve  to  essay 
this  means  of  escape  and  the  cunning  to  think  of  it. 

David  was  looking  into  the  well  of  the  building  a 
hundred  feet  below,  when  an  electric  bell  jarred  over  his 
head.    Some  one  was  at  the  front  door.    It  was  a  porter. 

282 


Van  Hupfeldt  Makes  Amends 

"You  are  wanted  down-stairs,  sir,'*  said  he,  his 
honest  face  all  of  a  grin. 

"Down-stairs?"   repeated   David,   puzzled. 

"Yes,  sir.     There's  a  hansom  waitin,'  sir." 

"Oh,"  said  David,  wondering  what  he  had  left  in 
his  cab. 

He  went  down,  hatless,  and  not  a  word  said  Jim, 
though  he  watched  David  out  of  the  comer  of  his  eye, 
and  smiled  broadly  when  he  saw  David's  sudden  recog- 
nition of  Violet  through  the  side-window  of  the  han- 
som. 

She,  too,  smiled  delightedly  when  David  appeared. 
"I  want  you  to  come  with  me  for  a  little  drive,"  she 
said;  "but  not  without  a  hat.     That  would  be  odd." 

David,  casting  off  three  months'  cobwebs  in  a  second, 
was  equal  to  the  emergency.  Somehow,  the  damask 
of  Violet's  flushed  cheeks  banished  the  dull  tints  in  his. 

"  Jim,"  he  said,  "  Here's  my  key.  Bring  me  a  hat 
—  any  old  hat  —  first  you  can  grab." 

Then  he  climbed  into  the  vacant  seat  by  her  side. 
"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  I  was  nearly  going  to  Rigs- 
worth  to-day  ? " 

"  I  only  know,"  she  replied,  "  that  you  were  to  write 
to  me,  and  I  have  had  no  letter." 

"Don't  put  me  on  my  self-defense,  or  I  shan't  care 
tuppence  if  you  are  worth  ten  thousand  or  ten  millions 
a  year,"  he  said. 

Violet  leaned  over  the  door.  "That  man  is  a  long 
time  going  for  your  hat,"  she  said.     "  By  the  way,  can 

283 


The  Late  Tenant 

you  spare  the  time  to  drive  with  me  to  Kensal  Green  ? 
And  then  I  am  to  take  you  to  Porchester  Gardens, 
where  mother  expects  you  to  dine  with  us,  en  Jamille, 
so  you  need  not  return  here.''  She  was  a  Httle  breath- 
less, and  spoke  in  a  fluster. 

Jim  arrived,  with  the  missing  head-gear.  The 
driver  whipped  up  his  horse,  and  David's  left  arm 
went  round  Violet's  waist.  She  bent  forward,  aston- 
ished, with  a  sidelong  glance  of  questioning. 

*'It  is  a  reasonable  precaution,"  said  David.  "If 
the  horse  goes  down,  you  don't  fall  out." 

Violet  laughed  and  blushed  prettily. 

A  bus-driver,  eying  them,  jerked  his  head  at  the  cab- 
man. *'A11  right,  the  lydy,"  he  said,  and  the  cabman 
winked.  But  the  two  inside  knew  nothing  of  this 
ribaldry. 

So,  you  see,  David  simply  couldn't  help  himself,  or 
rather,  from  another  point  of  view,  he  did  help  him- 
self to  a  remarkably  charming  wife  and  a  considerable 
fortune. 

Miss  Ermyn  L'Estrange  insisted  on  an  invitation 
to  the  wedding,  which  took  place  at  Rigsworth  as 
quietly  as  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  would  allow. 
The  volatile  actress  won  such  favor  from  a  local  land 
agent  in  a  fair  way  of  business  that  he  goes  to  town 
far  too  frequently,  people  say,  and  it  is  highly  probable 
that  her  name  will  be  changed  soon  to  a  less  euphoni- 
ous one,  which  will  be  good  for  her  and  excellent  for 
the  land  agent's  business. 

284 


Van  Hupfeldt  Makes  Amends 

Sarah  Gissing  found  a  new  post  as  Master  Henry's 
nurse,  and  Mrs.  Carter  was  well  rewarded  for  the  care 
she  had  taken  of  the  boy.  The  postmistress's  sister 
received  a  fine  diamond  ring  when  David,  by  dint  of 
judicious  questioning,  found  out  the  identity  of  the 
"friend"  who  sent  that  most  timely  telegram,  and, 
strangely  enough,  the  surly  gamekeeper  never  received 
either  the  fifty  pounds,  or  the  thrashing,  or  the  sack; 
but  was  minus  the  silver  paid  to  his  poacher  assistants 
for  their  night  watch. 

So,  even  this  little  side  issue,  out  of  the  many  grave 
ones  raised  by  David's  tenancy  of  an  ordinary  flat 
in  an  ordinary  London  mansion,  shows  how  often  the 
unexpected  happens,  even  in  ordinary  life. 


THE   END 


285 


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